SUMMER IN SKYE 



ALEXANDERS SMITH, 

AUTHOR OF "ALFRED HAGART's HOUSEHOLD," "a LIFE DRAMA, 
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BOSTON: 

TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 

1865. 
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University Press : Welch, Bigelow, & Co., 
Cambridge. 



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CONTENTS. 



— • 

Page 

Edinburgh i 

Stirling and the North 32 

Oban 50 

Skye at last 54 

At Mr. M'Ian's 77 

A Basket of Fragments 124 

The Second Sight 170 

In a Skye Bothy 185 

The Well 194 

Autumn 197 

Wardie. — Spring-Time 199 

Dansciach 202 

Edenbain 206 

Peebles . . . 208 

Jubilation of Sergeant M'Turk . . . .210 

The Landlord's Walk 213 

Orbost and Dunvegan 255 

Duntulm 281 

John Penruddock 314 



iv CONTENTS. 

A Smoking Parliament 334 

The Emigrants 346 

Homewards 352 

Glasgow 366 

Home 412 

Extract from Carrick-Thura .... 414 

Extracts from Fingal 416 



A SUMMER IN SKYE. 



EDINBURGH. 

SUMMER has leaped suddenly on Edinburgh like a 
tiger. The air is still and hot above the houses ; 
but every now and then a breath of east wind startles 
you through the warm sunshine, — like a sudden sarcasm 
felt through a strain of flattery, — and passes on de- 
tested of every organism. But, with this exception, the 
atmosphere is so close, so laden with a body of heat, that 
a thunder-storm would be almost welcomed as a relief. 
Edinburgh on her crags, held high towards the sun, — 
too distant the sea to send cool breezes to street and 
square, — is at this moment an uncomfortable dwelling- 
place. Beautiful as ever, of course, — for nothing can 
be finer than the ridge of the Old Town etched on hot 
summer azure, — but close, breathless, suffocating. Great 
volumes of white smoke surge out of the railway station ; 
great choking puffs of dust issue from the houses and 
shops that are being gutted in Princes Street. The 
Castle rock is gray ; the trees are of a dingy olive ; lan- 
guid " swells," arm-in-arm, promenade uneasily the heated 
pavement; water-carts everywhere dispense their treas- 
ures ; and the only human being really to be envied in 
the city is the small boy who, with trousers tucked up, 

1 A 



2 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

and unheeding of maternal vengeance, marches coolly in 
the fringe of the ambulating shower-bath. O for one 
hour of heavy rain ! Thereafter would the heavens wear 
a clear and tender, instead of a dim and sultry hue. 
Then would the Castle rock brighten in color, and the 
trees and grassy slopes doff their dingy olives for the 
emeralds of April. Then would the streets be cooled, 
and the dust be allayed. Then would the belts of city 
verdure, refreshed, pour forth gratitude in balmy smells ; 
and Fife — low-lying across the Forth — break from its 
hot neutral tint into the greens, purples, and yellows that 
of right belong to it. But rain won't come ; and for 
weeks, perhaps, there will be nothing but hot sun above, 
and hot street beneath ; and for the respiration of poor 
human lungs an atmosphere of heated dust, tempered 
with east wind. 

Moreover, one is tired and jaded. The whole man, 
body and soul, like sweet bells jangled, out of tune, and 
harsh, is fagged with work, eaten up of impatience, and 
haunted with visions of vacation. One " babbles o' green 
fields," like a very Falstaff ; and the poor tired ears hum 
with sea-music like a couple of sea-shells. At last it 
comes, the 1st of August, and then — like an arrow from 
a Tartar's bow, like a bird from its cage, like a lover to 
his mistress — one is off; and before the wild scarlets of 
sunset die on the northern sea, one is in the silence of the 
hills, those eternal sun-dials that tell the hours to the 
shepherd, and in one's nostrils is the smell of peat-reek, 
and in one's throat the flavor of usquebaugh. Then come 
long floating summer days, so silent the wilderness, that 
one can hear one's heart beat; then come long silent 
nights, the waves heard upon the shore, although that is 
a mile away, in which one snatches the " fearful joy " of 



JOY OF VACATION. 3 

a ghost story, told by shepherd or fisher, who believes in 
it as in his own existence. Then one beholds sunset, not 
through the smoked glass of towns, but gloriously through 
the clearness of enkindled air. Then one makes ac- 
quaintance with sunrise, which to the dweller in a city, 
who conforms to the usual proprieties, is about the rarest 
of this world's sights. 

Mr. De Quincey maintains, in one of his essays, that 
dinner — dinner about seven in the evening, for which 
one dresses, which creeps on with multitudinous courses 
and entrees, which, so far from being a gross satisfaction 
of appetite, is a feast noble, graceful, adorned with the 
presence and smile of beauty, and which, from the very 
stateliness of its progress, gives opportunities for conver- 
sation and the encounter of polished minds — saves over- 
wrought London from insanity. This is no mere humor- 
ous exaggeration, but a very truth ; and what dinner is 
to the day the Highlands are to the year. Away in the 
north, amid its green or stony silences, jaded hand and 
brain find repose, — repose, the depth and intensity of 
which the idler can never know. In that blessed idleness 
you become in a strange way acquainted with yourself; 
for in the world you are too constantly occupied to spend 
much time in your own company. You live abroad all 
day, as it were, and only come home to sleep. Away in 
the north you have nothing else to do, and cannot quite 
help yourself; and conscience, who has kept open a 
watchful eye, although her lips have been sealed these 
many months, gets disagreeably communicative, and tells 
her mind pretty freely about certain little shabby selfish- 
nesses and unmanly violences of temper, which you had 
quietly consigned — like a document which you were for- 
ever done with — to the waste-basket of forgetfulness. 



4 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

And the quiet, the silence, the rest, is not only good for 
the soul, it is good for the body too. You flourish like a 
flower in the open air ; the hurried pulse beats a whole- 
some measure ; evil dreams roll off your slumbers ; indi- 
gestion dies. During your two months' vacation, you 
amass a fund of superfluous health, and can draw on it 
during the ten months that succeed. And in going to the 
north, and wandering about the north, it is best to take 
everything quietly and in moderation. It is better to 
read one good book leisurely, lingering over the finer 
passages, returning frequently on an exquisite sentence, 
closing the volume, now and then, to run down in your 
own mind a new thought started by its perusal, than to 
rush in a swift perfunctory manner through half a library. 
It is better to sit down to dinner in a moderate frame 
of mind, to please the palate as well as satisfy the appe- 
tite, to educe the sweet juices of meats by sufficient mas- 
tication, to make your glass of port " a linked sweetness 
long drawn out," than to bolt everything like a leathern- 
faced Yankee for whom the cars are waiting, and who 
fears that before he has had his money's worth, he will 
be summoned by the railway bell. And shall one, who 
wishes to extract from the world as much enjoyment as 
his nature will allow him, treat the Highlands less re- 
spectfully than he will his dinner ? So at least will not 
I. My bourne is the island of which Douglas dreamed 
on the morning of Otterburu ; but even to it I will not 
unnecessarily hurry, but will look on many places on my 
way. You have to go to London ; but unless your busi- 
ness is urgent, you are a fool to go thither like a parcel 
in the night train and miss York and Peterborough. It 
is very fine to arrive at majority, and the management 
of your fortune which has been all the while accumulat- 



PREPARATIONS FOR HIGHLAND TRAVEL. 5 

ing for years ; but you do not wish to do so at a sudden 
leap, — to miss the April eyes and April heart of seven- 
teen ! 

The Highlands can be enjoyed in the utmost simplici- 
ty ; and the best preparations are, — money to a moderate 
extent in one's pocket, a knapsack containing a spare 
shirt and a tooth-brush, and a courage that does not fear 
to breast the steep of the hill, and to encounter the pelting 
of a Highland shower. No man knows a country till he 
has walked through it ; he then tastes the sweets and the 
bitters of it. He beholds its grand and important points, 
and all the subtler and concealed beauties that lie out of 
the beaten track. Then, O reader, in the most glorious 
of the months, the very crown and summit of the fruitful 
year, hanging in equal poise between summer and autumn, 
leave London or Edinburgh, or whatever city your lot 
may happen to be cast in, and accompany me on my 
wanderings. Our course will lead us by ancient battle- 
fields, by castles standing in hearing of the surge ; by the 
bases of mighty mountains, along the wanderings of hol- 
low glens ; and if the weather holds, we may see the keen 
ridges of Blaavin and the Cuchullin hills ; listen to a 
legend old as Ossian, while sitting on the broken stair 
of the castle of Duntulm, beaten for centuries by the salt 
flake and the wind ; and in the pauses of ghostly talk in 
the long autumn nights, when the rain is on the hills, we 
may hear — more wonderful than any legend, carrying 
you away to misty regions and half-forgotten times — the 
music which haunted the Berserkers of old, the thunder 
of the northern sea ! 

A perfect library of books has been written about 
Edinburgh. Defoe, in his own matter-of-fact, garrulous 



6 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

way, has described the city. Its towering streets, and 
the follies of its society, are reflected in the inimitable 
pages of " Humphrey Clinker." Certain aspects of city 
life, city amusements, city dissipations, are mirrored in 
the clear, although somewhat shallow, stream of Fergus- 
son's humor. The old life of the place, the traffic in the 
streets, the old-fashioned shops, the citizens with cocked 
hats and powdered hair, with hospitable paunches and 
double chins, with no end of wrinkles, and hints of latent 
humor in their worldly-wise faces, with gold-headed sticks, 
and shapely limbs encased in close-fitting small-clothes, 
are found in " Kay's Portraits." Passing Scott's other 
services to the city, — the magnificent description in 
" Marmion," the " high jinks " in " Guy Mannering," the 
broils of the nobles and wild chieftains who attended 
the Court of the Jameses in " The Abbot," — he has, in 
" The Heart of Mid-Lothian," made immortal many of 
the city localities ; and the central character of Jeanie 
Deans is so unassumingly and sweetly Scotch, that she 
seems as much a portion of the place as Holyrood, the 
Castle, or the Crags. In Lockhart's " Peter's Letters to 
his Kinsfolk," we have sketches of society nearer our own 
time, when the Edinburgh Review flourished, when the 
city was really the Modern Athens, and a seat of criticism 
giving laws to the empire. In these pages we are intro- 
duced to Jeffrey, to John Wilson, the Ettrick Shepherd, 
and Dr. Chalmers. Then came Blackwood's Magazine^ 
the " Chaldee Manuscript," the " Noctes," and " Margaret 
Lindsay." Then the " Traditions of Edinburgh," by Mr. 
Robert Chambers ; thereafter the well-known Edinburgh 
Journal. Since then we have had Lord Cockburn's 
chatty " Memorials of his Time." Almost the other day 
we had Dean Ramsay's Lectures, filled with pleasant 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 7 

antiquarianism, and information relative to the men and 
women who flourished half a century ago. And the list 
may be closed with " Edinburgh Dissected," written after 
the fashion of Lockhart's " Letters," — a book containing 
pleasant reading enough, although it wants the brilliancy, 
the acuteness, the eloquence, and possesses all the ill- 
nature, of its famous prototype. 

Scott has done more for Edinburgh than all her great 
men put together. Bums has hardly left a trace of him- 
self in the northern capital. During his residence there 
his spirit was soured, and he was taught to drink 
whiskey-punch, — obligations which he repaid by ad- 
dressing " Edina, Scotia's darling seat," in a copy of 
his tamest verses. Scott discovered that the city was 
beautiful, — he sang its praises over the world, — and he 
has put more coin into the pockets of its inhabitants than 
if he had established a branch of manufacture of which 
they had the monopoly. Scott's novels were to Edin- 
burgh what the tobacco trade was to Glasgow about the 
close of the last century. Although several laborers were 
before him in the field of the Border Ballads he made 
fashionable those wonderful stories of humor and pathos. 
As soon as " The Lay of the Last Minstrel " appeared, 
everybody was raving about Melrose and moonlight. He 
wrote the " Lady of the Lake," and next year a thousand 
tourists descended on the Trosachs, watched the sun 
setting on Loch Katrine, and began to take lessons on 
the bagpipe. He improved the Highlands as much as 
General Wade did when he struck through them his mili- 
tary roads. Where his muse was one year, a mail-coach 
and a hotel were the next. His poems are grated down 
into guide-books. Never was an author so popular as 
Scott, and never was popularity worn so Hghtly and 



8 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

gracefully. In his own heart he did not value it highly; 
and he cared more for his plantations at Abbotsford than 
for his poems and novels. He would rather have been 
praised by Tom Purdie than by any critic. He was a 
great, simple, sincere, warm-hearted man. He never 
turned aside from his fellows in gloomy scorn ; his lip 
never curled with a fine disdain. He never ground his 
teeth save when in the agonies of toothache. He liked 
society, his friends, his dogs, his domestics, his trees, his 
historical knicknacks. At Abbotsford he would write a 
chapter of a novel before his guests were out of bed, 
spend the day with them, and then, at dinner, with his 
store of shrewd Scottish anecdote, brighten the table 
more than did the champagne. When in Edinburgh, 
any one might see him in the streets or in the Parlia- 
ment House. He was loved by everybody. No one 
so popular among the souters of Selkirk as the Shirra. 
George IV., on his visit to the northern kingdom, de- 
clared that Scott was the man he most wished to see. 
He was the deepest, simplest man of his time. The 
mass of his greatness takes away from our sense of its 
height. He sinks like Ben Cruachan, shoulder after 
shoulder, slowly, till its base is twenty miles in girth. 
Scotland is Scott-land. He is the light in which it is 
seen. He has proclaimed over all the world Scottish 
story, Scottish humor, Scottish feeling, Scottish virtue; 
and he has put money into the pockets of Scottish hotel- 
keepers, Scottish tailors, Scottish boatmen, and the 
drivers of the Highland mails. 

Every true Scotsman believes Edinburgh to be the 
most picturesque city in the world ; and truly, standing 
on the Calton Hill at early morning, when the smoke of 
fires newly-kindled hangs in azure swathes and veils 



BEAUTY OF EDINBURGH. 9 

about the Old Town, — which from that point resembles 
a huge lizard, the Castle its head, church-spires spikes 
upon its scaly back, creeping up from its lair beneath tlie 
Crags to look out on the morning world, — one is quite 
inclined to pardon the enthusiasm of the North Briton. 
The finest view from the interior is obtained from the 
corner of St. Andrew Street, looking west. Straight 
before you the Mound crosses the valley, bearing the 
white Academy buildings ; beyond, the Castle lifts, from 
grassy slopes and billows of summer foliage, its weather- 
stained towers and fortifications, the Half-Moon Battery 
giving the folds of its standard to the wind. Living in 
Edinburgh there abides, above all things, a sense of its 
beauty. Hill, crag, castle, rock, blue stretch of sea, the 
picturesque ridge of the Old Town, the squares and ter- 
races of the New, — these things seen once are not to be 
forgotten. The quick life of to-day sounding around the 
relics of antiquity, and overshadowed by the august tra- 
ditions of a kingdom, makes residence in Edinburgh more 
impressive than residence in any other British city. I 
have just come in — surely it never looked so fair before ? 
What a poem is that Princes Street ! The puppets of 
the busy, many-colored hour move about on its pavement, 
while across the ravine Time has piled up the Old Town, 
ridge on ridge, gray as a rocky coast washed and worn 
by the foam of centuries ; peaked and jagged by gable 
and roof; windowed from basement to cope ; the whole 
surmounted by St. Giles's airy crown. The New is there 
looking at the Old. Two Times are brought face to face, 
and are yet separated by a thousand years. Wonderful 
on winter nights, when the gully is filled with darkness, 
and out of it rises, against the sombre blue and the frosty 
stars, that mass and bulwark of gloom, pierced and quiv- 
1* 



10 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

ering with innumerable lights. There is nothing in Eu- 
rope to match that, I think. Could you but roll a river 
down the valley it would be sublime. Finer still, to 
place one's self near the Burns Monument and look 
toward the Castle. It is more astonishing than an East- 
ern dream. A city rises up before you painted by fire 
on night. High in air a bridge of lights leaps the 
chasm ; a few emerald lamps, like glow-worms, are mov- 
ing silently about in the railway station below ; a solitary 
crimson one is at rest. That ridged and chimneyed bulk 
of blackness, with splendor bursting out at every pore, 
is the wonderful Old Town, where Scottish history main- 
ly transacted itself; while, opposite, the modern Princes 
Street is blazing throughout its length. During the day 
the Castle looks down upon the city as if out of another 
world; stern with all its peacefulness, its garniture of 
trees, its slopes of grass. The rock is dingy enough in 
color, but after a shower its lichens laugh out greenly in 
the returning sun, while the rainbow is brightening on 
the lowering sky beyond. How deep the shadow which 
the Castle throws at noon over the gardens at its feet 
where the children play ! How grand when giant bulk 
and towery crown blacken against sunset! Fair, too, 
the New Town sloping to the sea. From George Street, 
which crowns the ridge, the eye is led down sweeping 
streets of stately architecture to the villas and woods that 
fill the lower ground and fringe the shore ; to the bright 
azure belt of the Forth, with its smoking steamer or its 
creeping sail; beyond, to the shores of Fife, soft blue, 
and flecked with fleeting shadows in the keen clear light 
of spring, dark purple in the summer heat, tarnished 
gold in the autumn haze ; and farther away still, just dis- 
tinguishable on the paler sky, the crest of some distant 



THE CANONGATE. 11 

peak, carrying the imagination into the illimitable world. 
Residence in Edinburgh is an education in itself. Its 
beauty refines one like being in love. It is perennial, 
like a play of Shakespeare's. Nothing can stale its 
infinite variety. 

From a historical and picturesque point of view, the 
Old Town is the most interesting part of Edinburgh ; 
and the great street running from Holyrood to the Cas- 
tle — in various portions of its length called the Lawn- 
market, the High Street, and the Canongate — is the 
most interesting part of the Old Town. In that street 
the houses preserve their ancient appearance ; they climb 
up heavenward, story upon story, with outside stairs 
and wooden panellings, all strangely peaked and gabled. 
With the exception of the inhabitants, who exist amidst 
squalor, and filth, and evil smells undeniably modern, 
everything in this long street breathes of the antique 
world. If you penetrate the narrow wynds that run at 
right angles from it, you see traces of ancient gardens. 
Occasionally the original names are retained, and they 
touch the visitor pathetically, like the scent of long- 
withered flowers. Old armorial bearings may yet be 
traced above the doorways. Two centuries ago fair eyes 
looked down from yonder window, now in possession of 
a drunken Irishwoman. If we but knew it, every crazy 
tenement has its tragic story ; every crumbling wall 
could its tale unfold. The Canongate is Scottish history 
fossilized. What ghosts of kings and queens walk there ! 
What strifes of steel-clad nobles ! What wretches borne 
along, in the sight of peopled windows, to the grim em- 
brace of the "maiden"! What hurrying of burgesses 
to man the city walls at the approach of the Southron ! 
What lamentations over disastrous battle days ! James 



12 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

rode up this street on his way to Flodden. Montrose 
was dragged up hither on a hurdle, and smote, with dis- 
liainful glance, his foes gathered together on the balcony. 
Jenny Geddes flung her stool at the priest in the church 
yonder. John Knox came up here to his house after his 
interview with Mary at Holyrood — grim and stern, and 
unmelted by the tears of a queen. In later days the 
Pretender rode down the Canongate, his eyes dazzled by 
the glitter of his father's crown, while bagpipes skirled 
around, and Jacobite ladies, with white knots in their 
bosoms, looked down from lofty windows, admiring the 
beauty of the " Young Ascanius," and his long yellow 
hair. Down here of an evening rode Dr. Johnson and 
Boswell, and turned in to the White Horse. David 
Hume had his dwelling in this street, and trod its pave- 
ments, much meditating the wars of the Roses and the 
Parliament, and the fates of English sovereigns. One 
day a burly ploughman from Ayrshire, with swarthy 
features and wonderful black eyes, came down here and 
turned into yonder churchyard to stand, with cloudy lids 
and forehead reverently bared, beside the grave of poor 
Fergusson. Down the street, too, often limped a little 
boy, Walter Scott by name, destined in after years to 
write its " Chronicles." The Canongate once seen is 
never to be forgotten. The visitor starts a ghost at 
every step. Nobles, grave senators, jovial lawyers, had 
once their abodes here. In the old, low-roofed rooms, 
half-way to the stars, philosophers talked, wits corrus- 
cated, and gallant young fellows, sowing wild oats in the 
middle of last century, wore rapiers and lace ruffles, and 
drank claret jovially out of silver stoups. In every room 
a minuet has been walked, while chairmen and linkmen 
clustered on the pavement beneath. But the Canongate 



CANONGATE. 13 

has fallen from its high estate. Quite another race of 
people are its present inhabitants. The vices to be seen 
are not genteel. Whiskey has supplanted claret. No- 
bility has fled, and squalor taken possession. Wild, half- 
naked children swarm around every door-step. Ruffians 
lounge about the mouths of the wynds. Female faces 
worthy of the " Inferno " look down from broken win- 
dows. Riots are frequent ; and drunken mothers reel 
past, scolding white atomies of children that nestle wail- 
ing in their bosoms, — little wretches to whom death were 
the greatest benefactor. The Canongate is avoided by 
respectable people, and yet it has many visitors. The 
tourist is anxious to make acquaintance with it. Gentle- 
men of obtuse olfactory nerve, and of an antiquarian 
turn of mind, go down its closes and climb its spiral 
stairs. Deep down these wynds the artist pitches his 
stool, and spends the day sketching some picturesque 
gable or doorway. The fever-van comes frequently here 
to convey some poor sufferer to the hospital. Hither 
comes the detective in plain clothes on the scent of a 
burglar. And when evening falls, and the lamps are lit, 
there is a sudden hubbub and crowd of people, and pres- 
ently from its midst emerge a couple of policemen and 
a barrow, with a poor, half-clad, tipsy woman from the 
sister island crouching upon it, her hair hanging loose 
about her face, her hands quivering with impotent rage, 
and her tongue wild with curses. Attended by small 
boys, who bait her with taunts and nicknames, and who 
appreciate the comic element which so strangely under- 
lies the horrible sight, she is conveyed to the police cell, 
and will be brought before the magistrate to-morrow — 
for the twentieth time perhaps — as a " drunk and dis- 
orderly," and dealt with accordingly. This is the kind 



14 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

of life the Canongate presents to-day, — a contrast with 
the time when the tall buildings enclosed the high birth 
and beauty of a kingdom, and when the street beneath 
rang to the horse-hoofs of a king. 

The New Town is divided from the Old by a gorge or 
valley, now occupied by a railway station; and the 
means of communication are the Mound, Waverley Bridge, 
and the North Bridge. With the exception of the Can- 
ongate, the more filthy and tumble-down portions of the 
city are well kept out of sight. You stand on the South 
Bridge, and looking down, instead of a stream, you see 
the Cowgate, the dirtiest, narrowest, most densely peo- 
pled of Edinburgh streets. Admired once by a French 
ambassador at the court of one of the Jameses, and yet 
with certain traces of departed splendor, the Cowgate has 
fallen into the sere and yellow leaf of furniture brokers, 
second-hand jewellers, and vendors of deleterious alcohol. 
These second-hand jewellers' shops, the trinkets seen by 
bleared gas-light, are the most melancholy sights I know. 
Watches hang there that once ticked comfortably in the 
fobs of prosperous men, rings that were once placed by 
happy bridegrooms on the fingers of happy brides, jewels 
in which lives the sacredness of death-beds. What 
tragedies, what disruptions of households, what fell press- 
ure of poverty brought them here ! Looking in through 
the foul windows, the trinkets remind one of shipwrecked 
gold embedded in the ooze of ocean, — gold that speaks 
of unknown, yet certain, storm and disaster, of the yielding 
of planks, of the cry of drowning men. Who has the 
heart to buy them, I wonder ? The Cowgate is the Irish 
portion of the city. Edinburgh leaps over it with bridges ; 
its inhabitants are morally and geographically the lower 
orders. They keep to their own quarters, and seldom 



THE COWGATE. 15 

come up to the light of day. Many an Edinburgh man 
has never set his foot in the street; the condition of 
the inhabitants is as little known to respectable Edin- 
burgh as are the habits of moles, earth-worms, and the min- 
ing population. The people of the Cowgate seldom visit 
the upper streets. You may walk about the New Town 
for a twelvemonth before one of these Cowgate pariahs 
comes between the wind and your gentility. Should you 
wish to see that strange people " at home," you must 
visit them. The Cowgate will not come to you: you 
must go to the Cowgate. The Cowgate holds high 
drunken carnival every Saturday night; and to walk 
along it then, from the West Port, through the noble 
open space of the Grassmarket — where the Covenanters 
and Captain Porteous suffered — on to Holyrood, is one 
of the world's sights, and one that does not particularly 
raise your estimate of human nature. For nights after 
your dreams will pass from brawl to brawl, shoals of 
hideous faces will oppress you, sodden countenances of 
brutal men, women with loud voices and frantic gesticu- 
lations, children who have never known innocence. It 
is amazing of what ugliness the human face is capable. 
The Devil marks his children as a shepherd marks his 
sheep, — that he may know them and claim them again. 
Many a face flits past here bearing the sign-manual of 
the fiend. 

But Edinburgh keeps all these evil things out of sight, 
and smiles with Castle, tower, church-spire, and pyramid 
rising into sunlight out of garden spaces and belts of foli- 
age. The Cowgate has no power to mar her beauty. 
There may be a canker at the heart of the peach, — 
there is neither pit nor stain on its dusty velvet. Throned 
on crags, Edinburgh takes every eye ; and, not content 



16 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

with supremacy in beauty, she claims an intellectual 
supremacy also. She is a patrician amongst British 
cities, " A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree." She has 
wit if she lacks wealth : she counts great men against 
millionnaires. The success of the actor is insecure until 
thereunto Edinburgh has set her seal. The poet trem- 
bles before the Edinburgh critics. The singer respects 
the delicacy of the Edinburgh ear. Coarse London may 
roar with applause : fastidious Edinburgh sniffs disdain, 
and sneers reputations away. London is the stomach of 
the empire, — Edinburgh the quick, subtle, far-darting 
brain. Some pretension of this kind the visitor hears 
on all sides of him. It is quite wonderful how Edin- 
burgh purrs over her own literary achievements. Swift, 
in the dark years that preceded his death, looking one 
day over some of the productions of his prime, exclaimed, 
" Good heaven ! what a genius I once was ! " Edin- 
burgh, looking some fifty years back on herself, is per- 
petually expressing astonishment and delight. Moulder- 
ing Highland famihes, when they are unable to retain 
a sufficient following of servants, fill up the gaps with 
ghosts. Edinburgh maintains her dignity after a similar 
fashion, and for a similar reason. Lord- Advocate Mon- 
creiff, one of the members for the city, hardly ever ad- 
dresses his fellow-citizens without recalling the names of 
Jeffrey, Cockburn, Rutherfurd, and the other stars that 
of yore made the welkin bright. On every side we hear 
of the brilliant society of forty years ago. Edinburgh 
considers herself supreme in talent, — just as it is taken 
for granted to-day that the present English navy is the 
most powerful in the world, because Nelson won Trafal- 
gar. The Whigs consider the Edinburgh Review the 
most wonderful effort of human genius. The Tories 



INTELLECTUAL GREATNESS OF EDINBURGH. 17 

would agree with them, if they were not bound to con- 
sider Blackwood's Magazine a still greater effort. It 
may be said that Burns, Scott, and Carlyle are the only 
men really great in literature, — taking great in a Eu- 
ropean sense, — who, during the last eighty years, have 
been connected with Edinburgh. I do not include "Wil- 
son in the list ; for although he was as splendid as any 
of these for the moment, he was evanescent as a North- 
ern light. In the whole man there was something spec- 
tacular. A review is superficially very like a battle. In 
both there is the rattle of musketry, the boom of great 
guns, the deploying of endless brigades, charges of bra- 
zen squadrons that shake the ground, — only the battle 
changes kingdoms, while the review is gone with its own 
smoke-wreaths. Scott lived in or near Edinburgh dur- 
ing the whole course of his life. Burns lived there 
but a few months. Carlyle went to London early, 
where he has written his important works, and made 
his reputation. Let the city boast of Scott, — no one 
will say she does wrong in that, — but it is not so easy 
to discover the amazing brilliancy of her other liter- 
ary lights. Their reputations, after all, are to a great 
extent local. What blazes a sun at Edinburgh, would, 
if transported to London, not unfrequently become a 
farthing candle. Lord Jeffrey — when shall we cease 
to hear his praises ? With perfect truthfulness one may 
admit that his lordship was no common man. His 
" vision " was sharp and clear enough within its range. 
He was unable to relish certain literary forms, as some 
men are unable to relish certain dishes, — an inaptitude 
that might arise from fastidiousness of palate, or from 
weakness of digestion. His style was perspicuous ; he 
had an icy sparkle of epigram and antithesis, some wit, 



18 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

and no enthusiasm. He wrote many clever papers, made 
many clever speeches, said many clever things. But the 
man who could so egregiously blunder as to " Wilhelm 
Meister," who hooted Wordsworth through his entire 
career, who had the insolence to pen the sentence that 
opens the notice of the " Excursion " in the Edinburgh 
Review, and who, when writing tardily, but really well, 
on Keats, could pass over the " Hyperion " with a shght- 
ing remark, might be possessed of distinguished parts, 
but no claim can be made for him to the character of a 
great critic. Hazlitt, wilful, passionate, splendidly-gifted, 
in whose very eccentricities and fierce vagaries there was 
a generosity which belongs only to fine natures, has sunk 
away into an almost unknown London grave, and his 
works into unmerited oblivion; while Lord Jeffrey yet 
makes radiant with his memory the city of his birth. In 
point of natural gifts and endowment, — in point, too, of 
literary issue and result, — the Englishman far surpassed 
the Scot. Why have their destinies been so different? 
One considerable reason is that Hazlitt lived in Lon- 
don, — Jeffrey in Edinburgh. Hazlitt was partially lost 
in an impatient crowd and rush of talent. Jeffrey stood, 
patent to every eye, in an open space in which there 
were few competitors. London does not brag about Haz- 
litt, — Edinburgh brags about Jeffrey. The Londoner, 
when he visits Edinburgh, is astonished to find that it 
possesses a Valhalla filled with gods, — chiefly legal 
ones, — of whose names and deeds he was previously in 
ignorance. The ground breaks into unexpected flower- 
age beneath his feet. He may conceive to-day to be a 
little cloudy, — may even suspect east wind to be abroad, 
— but the discomfort is balanced by the reports he hears 
on every side of the beauty, warmth, and splendor of 



A SCOTTISH WEIMAR. 19 

yesterday. He puts out his hands and warms them, if 
he can, at that fire of the past. " Ah ! that society of 
forty years ago ! Never on this earth did the hke exist. 
Those astonishing men, Horner, Jeffrey, Cockburn, Ruth- 
erfurd ! What wit was theirs, — what eloquence, what 
genius ! What a city this Edinburgh once was ! " 

Edinburgh is not only in point of beauty the first of 
British cities, but, considering its population, the general 
tone of its society is more intellectual than that of any 
other. In no other city will you find so general an ap- 
preciation of books, art, music, and objects of antiquarian 
interest. It is peculiarly free from the taint of the ledger 
and the counting-house. It is a Weimar without a 
Goethe, — Boston without its nasal twang. But it wants 
variety ; it is mainly a city of the professions. London, 
for instance, contains every class of people ; it is the seat 
of legislature as well as of wealth ; it embraces Seven 
Dials as well as Belgravia. In that vast community 
class melts imperceptibly into class, from the Sovereign 
on the throne to the wretch in the condemned cell. In 
that finely-graduated scale, the professions take their 
own place. In Edinburgh matters are quite different. 
It retains the gauds which royalty cast off when it went 
south, and takes a melancholy pleasure in regarding 
these — as a lady the love-tokens of a lover who has 
deserted her to marry into a family of higher rank. A 
crown and sceptre lie up in the Castle, but no brow wears 
the diadem, no hand lifts the golden rod. There is a pal- 
ace at the foot of the Canongate, but it is a hotel for her 
Majesty, en route for Balmoral, — a place where the 
Commissioner to the Church of Scotland holds his j^han- 
tom Court. With these exceptions, the old halls echo 
only the footfalls of the tourist and sight-seer. When 



20 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

royalty went to London, nobility followed ; and in Edin- 
burgh the field is left now, and has been so left for a long 
time back, to Law, Physic, and Divinity. The profes- 
sions predominate : than these there is nothing higher. 
At Edinburgh a Lord of Session is a Prince of the Blood, 
a Professor a Cabinet Minister, an Advocate an heir to a 
peerage. The University and the Courts of Justice are 
to Edinburgh what the Court and the Houses of Lords 
and Commons are to London. That the Scottish nobility 
should spend their seasons in London is not to be regret- 
ted for the sake of Edinburgh shopkeepers only, — their 
absence aifects interests infinitely higher. In the event 
of a superabundance of princes, and a difiiculty as to what 
should be done with them, it has been frequently sug- 
gested that one should be stationed in Dublin, another in 
Edinburgh, to hold Court in these cities. Gold is every- 
where preferred to paper ; and in the Irish capital royalty 
in the person of Prince Patrick would be more satisfac- 
tory than its shadow in the person of a Lord-Lieutenant. 
A Prince of the Blood in Dublin would be gratefully 
received by the warm-hearted Irish people. His per- 
manent presence amongst them would cancel the remem- 
brance of centuries of misgovernment ; it would strike 
away forever the badge and color of conquest. In Edin- 
burgh we have had princes of late years, and seen the 
uses of them. A prince at Holyrood would effect for the 
country what Scottish Rights' Associations and University 
reformers have so long desired. The nobility would again 
gather — for a portion of the year at least — to their 
ancient capital ; and their sons, as of old, would be found 
in the University class-rooms. Under the new influence, 
life would be gayer, airier, brighter. The social tyranny 
of the professions would to some extent be broken up, th© 



SPIRITUAL ATMOSPHERE OF THE CITY. 21 

atmosphere would become less legal, and a new standard 
would be introduced whereby to measure men and their 
pretensions. For the Prince himself, good results might 
be expected. He would at the least have some specific 
public duties to perform ; and he would, through inter- 
course, become attached to the people, as the people in 
their turn would become attached to him. Edinburgh 
needs some little gayetj and courtly pomp to break the 
coldness of gray stony streets, to brighten a somewhat 
sombre atmosphere, to mollify the east wind that blows 
half the year, and the " professional sectarianism " that 
blows the whole year round. You always suspect the 
east wind, somehow, in the city. You go to dinner : the 
east wind is blowing chillily from hostess to host. You 
go to church : a bitter east wind is blowing in the sermon. 
The text is that divine one, God is Love ; and the dis- 
course that follows is full of all uncharitableness. 

Of all British cities, Edinburgh — Weimar-like in its 
intellectual and aesthetic leanings, Florence-like in its 
freedom from the stains of trade, and more than Florence- 
like in its beauty — is the one best suited for the conduct 
of a lettered life. The city as an entity does not stimu- 
late like London, the present moment is not nearly so 
intense, life does not roar and chafe, — it murmurs only ; 
and this interest of the hour, mingled with something 
of the quietude of distance and the j)ast — which is the 
spiritual atmosphere of the city — is the most favorable 
of all conditions for intellectual work or intellectual enjoy- 
ment. You have libraries, — you have the society of 
cultivated men and women, — you have the eye constantly 
fed by beauty, — the Old Town, jagged, picturesque, piled 
up ; and the airy, open, coldly-sunny, unhurried, un- 
crowded streets of the New Town, — and, above all, you 



22 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

can " sport your oak," as they say at Cambridge, and be 
quit of the world, the gossip, and the dun. In Edin- 
burgh, you do not require to create quiet for yourself; 
you can have it ready-made. Life is leisurely ; but it is 
not the leisure of a village, arising from a deficiency of 
ideas and motives, — it is the leisure of a city reposing 
grandly on tradition and history, which has done its work, 
which does not require to weave its own clothing, to dig 
its own coals, to smelt its own iron. And then, in Edin- 
burgh, above all British cities, you are released from the 
vulgarizing dominion of the hour. The past confronts 
you at every street corner. The Castle looks down out 
of history on its gayest thoroughfare. The winds of fable 
are blowing across Arthur's Seat. Old kings dwelt in 
Holyrood. Go out of the city where you will, the past 
attends you like a cicerone. Go down to North Berwick, 
and the red shell of Tantallon speaks to you of the might 
of the Douglases. Across the sea, from the gray-green 
Bass, through a cloud of gannets, comes the sigh of 
prisoners. From the long seaboard of Fife — which 
you can see from George Street — starts a remembrance 
of the Jameses. Queen Mary is at Craigmillar, Napier 
at Merchiston, Ben Jonson and Drummond at Hawthorn- 
den, Prince Charles in the little inn at Duddingston ; 
and if you go out to Linlithgow, there is the smoke of 
Bothwellhaugh's fusee, and the Great Regent falling in 
the crooked street. Thus the past checkmates the pres- 
ent. To an imaginative man, life in or near Edinburgh 
is like residence in an old castle : — the rooms are fur- 
nished in consonance with modern taste and convenience ; 
the people who move about wear modern costume, and 
talk of current events in current colloquial phrases ; there 
is the last newspaper and book in the library, the air from 



SUMMER IN EDINBURGH. 23 

the last new opera in the drawing-room ; but while the 
hour flies past, a subtle influence enters into it — enrich- 
ing, dignifying — from oak panelling and carvings on the 
roof, — from the picture of the peaked-bearded ancestor 
on the wall, — from the picture of the fanned and hooped 
lady, — from the old suit of armor and the moth-eaten 
banner. On the intellectual man, living or working in 
Edinburgh, the light comes through the stained window 
of the past. To-day's event is not raw and brusque ; it 
comes draped in romantic color, hued with ancient gules 
and or. And when he has done his six hours' work, he 
can take the noblest and most renovating exercise. He 
can throw down his pen, put aside his papers, and walk 
round the Queen's Drive, where the wind from the sea 
is always fresh and keen ; and in his hour's walk he has 
wonderful variety of scenery, — the fat Lothians, — the 
craggy hillside, — the valley, w^hich seems a bit of the 
Highlands, — the wide sea, with smoky towns on its 
margin, and islands on its bosom, — lakes with swans 
and rushes, — ruins of castle, palace, and chapel, — and, 
finally, homeward by the high towering street through 
which Scottish history has rushed like a stream. There 
is no such hour's walk as this for starting ideas, or, having 
started, captured, and used them, for getting quit of them 
again. 

Edinburgh is at this moment in the full blaze of her 
beauty. The public gardens are in blossom. The trees 
that clothe the base of the Castle rock are clad in green : 
the " ridgy back " of the Old Town jags the clear azure. 
Princes Street is warm and sunny, — 't is a very flower- 
bed of parasols, twinkling, rainbow-colored. Shop win- 
dows are enchantment, the flag streams from the Half- 
moon Battery, church-spires sparkle sun-gilt, gay equi- 



24 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

pages dash past, the mUitary band is heard from afar. 
The tourist is already here in wonderful Tweed costume. 
Every week the wanderers increase, and in a short time 
the city will be theirs. By August the inhabitants have 
fled. The University lets loose, on unoffending human- 
ity, a horde of juvenile M. D.'s warranted to dispense — 
with the sixth commandment. Beauty listens to what 
the wild waves are saying. Valor cruises in the Medi- 
terranean ; and Law, up to the knees in heather, stalks 
his stag on the slopes of Ben-Muichdhui. Those who, 
from private and most urgent reasons, are forced to re- 
main behind, put brown paper in their front windows; 
inform the world by placard that letters and parcels 
may be left at No. 26 round the corner, and live fashion- 
ably in their back-parlors. At twilight only do they ad- 
venture forth; and if they meet a friend, — who ought 
like the rest of the world to be miles away, — they have 
only of course come up from the seaside, or their rela- 
tion's shooting-box, for a night, to look after some im- 
perative business. Tweed-clad tourists are everywhere : 
they stand on Arthur's Seat, they speculate on the birth- 
place of Mons Meg, they admire Roslin, eat haggis, at- 
tempt whiskey-punch, and crowd to Dr. Guthrie's church 
on Sundays. By October the last tourist has departed, 
and the first student has arrived. Tailors put forth their 
gaudiest fabrics to attract the eye of ingenuous youth. 
Whole streets bristle with " lodgings to let." Edinburgh 
is again filled. The University class-rooms are crowded ; 
a hundred schools are busy ; and Young Briefless, 
" Who never is, but always to be, fee'd," 

the sun-brown yet on his face, paces the floor of the 
Parliament House, four hours a day, in his professional 
finery of horse-hair and bombazine. During the winter 



THE SCOTTISH ACADEMY. 25 

time are assemblies and dinner-parties. There is a fort- 
night's opera, with the entire fashionable world in the 
boxes. The Philosophical Institution is in full session ; 
while a whole army of eloquent lecturers do battle with 
ignorance on public platforms, — each efFulging like Phce- 
bus, with his wagon-load of blazing day, — at whose 
coming night perishes, shot through with orient beams. 
Neither mind nor body is neglected during the Edin- 
burgh season. 

In spring time when the east winds blow, and gray 
walls of haar — clammy, stinging, heaven-high, making 
disastrous twilight of the brightest noon — come in from 
the German Ocean, and when coughs and colds do most 
abound, the Royal Scottish Academy opens her many- 
pictured walls. From February to May this is the 
most fashionable lounge in Edinburgh. The rooms are 
warm, so thickly carpeted that no footfall is heard, and 
there are seats in abundance. It is quite wonderful how 
many young ladies and gentlemen get suddenly interested 
in art. The Exhibition is a charming place for flirta- 
tion ; and when Romeo is short in the matter of small 
talk, — as Romeo sometimes will.be, — there is always 
a picture at hand to suggest a topic. Romeo may say 
a world of pretty things while he turns up the number 
of a picture in Juliet's catalogue, — for without a cata- 
logue Juliet never appears in the rooms. Before the 
season closes, she has her catalogue by heart, and could 
repeat it to you from beginning to end more glibly than 
she could her Catechism. Cupid never dies ; and fingers 
will tingle as sweetly when they touch over an Exhi- 
bition catalogue as over the dangerous pages of " Lance- 
lot of the Lake." If many marriages are not made here, 
there are gay deceivers in the world, and the picture of 



26 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

deserted Ophelia, — the blank smile on her mouth, flower- 
ets stuck in her yellow hair, — slowly sinking in the 
weedy pool, produces no suitable moral effect. To other 
than young ladies and gentlemen the rooms are inter- 
esting, for Scottish art is at this moment more powerful 
than Scottish literature. Perhaps some half-dozen pic- 
tures in each Academy's Exhibition are the most notable 
intellectual products that Scotland can present for the 
year. The Scottish brush is stronger than the Scottish 
pen. It is in landscape and — at all events up till the 
other day, when Sir John Watson Gordon died — in 
portraiture that the Scotch school excels. It excels in 
the one in virtue of the national scenery, and in the other 
in virtue of the national insight and humor. For the 
making of a good portrait a great deal more is required 
than excellent color and dexterous brush-work, — shrewd- 
ness, insight, imagination, common sense, and many an- 
other mental quality besides, are needed. No man can 
paint a good portrait unless he knows his sitter thor- 
oughly ; and every good portrait is a kind of biography. 
It is curious, as indicating that the instinct for biography 
and portrait-painting are alike in essence, that in both 
walks of art the Scotch have been unusually successful. 
It would seem that there is something in the national 
character predisposing to excellence in these departments 
of effort. Strictly to inquire how far this predisposition 
arises from the national shrewdness or the national humor 
would be needless ; thus much is certain, that Scotland 
has at various times produced the best portrait-painters 
and the best writers of biography to be found in the 
compass of the islands. In the past, she can point to 
Boswell's " Life of Johnson " and Raeburn's portraits : 
she yet can claim Thomas Carlyle; and but lately she 



SCOTTISH PORTKAITURE. 27 

could claim Sir John Watson Gordon. Thomas Carlyle 
is a portrait-painter, and Sir John Watson Gordon -was 
a biographer. 

On the walls of the Exhibition, as I have said, will be 
found some of the best products of the Scottish brain. 
There, year after year, are to be found the pictures of 
Mr. Noel Paton, — some, of the truest pathos, like the 
" Home from the Crimea " ; or that group of ladies and 
children in the cellar at Cawnpore, listening to the foot- 
steps of deliverers, whom they conceive to be destroyers ; 
or " Luther at Erfurt," the gray morning light breaking 
in on him as he is with fear and trembling working out 
his own salvation — and the world's. We have these, 
but we have at times others quite different from these, 
and of a much lower scale of excellence, although hugely 
admired by the young people aforesaid, — pictures in 
which attire is painted instead of passion ; where the 
merit consists in exquisite renderings of unimportant de- 
tails, — jewels, tassels, and dagger-hilts; where a land- 
scape is sacrificed to a bunch of ferns, a tragic situation 
to the pattern on the lady's zone, or the slashed jacket 
and purple leggings of the knight. Then there are Mr. 
Drummond's pictures from Scottish history and ballad 
poetry, — a string of wild moss-troopers riding over into 
England to lift cattle; John Knox on his wedding-day 
leading his wife home to his quaint dwelling in the 
Canongate ; the wild lurid Grassmarket, crowded with 
rioters, crimson with torchlight, spectators filling every 
window of the tall houses, while Porteous is being car- 
ried to his death, — the Castle standing high above the 
tumult against the blue midnight and the stars ; or the 
death procession of Montrose, — the hero seated on 
hurdle, not on battle-steed, with beard untrimmed, hair 



28 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

dishevelled, dragged through the crowded street by the 
city hangman and his horses, yet proud of aspect, as if 
the slogans of Inverlochj' were ringing in his ears, and 
flashing on his enemies on the balcony above him the 
fires of his disdain. Then there are Mr. Harvey's sol- 
emn twilight moors and covenanting scenes of marriage, 
baptism, and funeral. And drawing the eye with a 
stronger fascination, — because they represent the places 
in which we are about to wander, — the landscapes of 
Horatio Macculloch, — stretches of Border moorland, 
with solitary gray peels on which the watery sunbeam 
strikes, a thread of smoke rising far off from the gypsy's 
fire ; Loch Scavaig in its wrath, the thunder gloom 
blackening on the peaks of Cuchullin, the fierce rain 
crashing down on white rock and shingly shore ; sunset 
on Loch Ard, the mountains hanging inverted in the 
golden mirror, a plump of waterfowl starting from the 
reeds in the foreground, and shaking the splendor into 
dripping wrinkles and widening rings; Ben Cruachan 
wearing his streak of snow at midsummer, and looking 
down on Kilchurn Castle and the winding Awe. He is 
the most national of the northern landscape-painters ; 
and although he can, on occasion, paint grasses and 
flowers, and the shimmer of reed-blades in the wind, he 
loves vast desolate spaces, the silence of the Highland 
wilderness where the wild deer roam, the shore on which 
subsides the last curl of the indolent wave. He loves the 
tall crag wet and gleaming in the sunlight, the rain- 
cloud on the moor, blotting out the distance, the setting 
sun raying out lances of flame from behind the stoi-my 
clouds, — clouds torn, but torn into gold, and flushed 
with a brassy radiance. 

May is an exciting month in Edinburgh, for, towards 



THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY. 29 

its close, the Assemblies of the Established and Free 
Churches meet. For a fortnight or so the clerical ele- 
ment predominates in the city. Every presbytery in Scot- 
land sends up its representative to the metropolis, and 
an astonishing number of black coats and white neck- 
cloths flit about the streets. At high noon the gayety 
of Princes Street is subdued with innumerable suits of 
sable. Ecclesiastical newspapers let the world wag as 
it pleases, so intent are they on the debates. Rocky- 
featured elders from the far north come up interested in 
some kirk dispute ; and junior counsel waste the mid- 
night oil preparing for appearance at the bar of the 
House. The opening of the General Assembly of the 
Church of Scotland is attended with a pomp and circum- 
stance which seems a little at variance with Presbyterian 
quietude of tone and contempt of sacerdotal vanities. 
Her Majesty's Lord High Commissioner resides at Holy- 
rood, and on the morning of the day on which the As- 
sembly opens he holds his first levee. People rush to 
warm themselves in the dim reflection of the royal sun- 
shine, and return with faces happy and elate. On the 
morning the Assembly opens, the military line the 
streets from Holyrood to the Assembly Hall. A regi- 
mental band and a troop of lancers wait outside the 
palace gates while the procession is slowly getting itself 
into order. The important moment at length arrives. 
The Commissioner has taken his seat in the carriage. 
Out bursts the brass band, piercing every ear ; the 
lancers caracole ; an orderly rides with eager spur ; the 
long train of carriages begins to crawl forward in an in- 
termittent manner, with many a dreary pause. At last 
the head of the procession appeal's along the peopled 
way. First come, in hired carriages, the city council-. 



30 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

lors, clothed in scarlet robes, and with cocked hats upon 
their heads. The very mothers that bore them could 
not recognize them now. They pass on silent with 
dignity. Then comes a troop of halberdiers in mediaeval 
costume, and looking for all the world as if the Kings, 
Jacks, and Knaves had walked out of a pack of cards. 
Then comes a carriage full of magistrates, wearing their 
gold chains of office over their scarlet cloaks, and eying 
sternly the small boy in the crowd who, from a natural 
sense of humor, has given vent to an irreverent observa- 
tion. Then comes the band ; then a squadron of lancers, 
whose horses the music seems to affect ; then a carriage 
occupied with high legal personages, with powder in their 
hair, and rapiers by their sides, which they could not 
draw for their lives. Then comes the private carriage 
of his Grace, surrounded by lancers, whose mercurial 
steeds plunge and rear, and back and sidle, and scat- 
ter the mob as they come prancing broadside on to the 
pavement, smiting sparks of fire from the curbstones with 
their iron hoofs. Thereafter, Tom, Jack, and Harry, for 
every cab, carriage, and omnibus of the line of route is 
now allowed to fall in, — and so, attended by halberdiers, 
and soldiers, and a brass band, her Majesty's Commis- 
sioner goes to open the General Assembly of the Church 
of Scotland. As his Grace has to attend all the sittina^s 
of the reverend court, the Government, it is said, gen- 
erally selects for the office a nobleman slightly dull of 
hearing. The Commissioner has no power, he has no 
voice in the deliberations ; but he is indispensable, as a 
corporation mace is indispensable at a corporation meet- 
ing. While the debate is going on below, and two rever- 
end fathers are passionately throttling each other, he is 
not unfrequently seen, with spectacles on nose, placidly 



THE COMMISSIONER'S LEVEE. 31 

perusing the Times. He is allowed two thousand pounds 
a year, and his duty is to spend it. He keeps open table 
for the assembled clergymen. He holds a grand evening 
levee, to which several hundred people are invited. If 
you are lucky enough to receive a card of invitation, you 
fall into the line of carriages opposite the llegister House 
about eight o'clock, you ai-e off the High hU-hool at nine, 
ten peals from the church-spires when you arc at the end 
of Regent Terrace, and by eleven your name is being 
shouted by gorgeous lackeys — whose income is proba- 
bly as great as your own — through the corridors of 
Holyrood as you advance towards the presence. When 
you arrive you find that the country parson, with his 
wife and daughter, have been before you, and you are a 
lucky man if, for refreshment, you can secure a bit of 
remainder sponge-cake and a glass of lukewarm sherry. 
On the last occasion of the Commissioner's levee the 
newspapers inform me that seventeen hundred invitations 
were issued. Think of it, — seventeen hundred persons 
on that evening bowed before the Shadow of Majesty, 
and then backed in their gracefulest manner. On that 
evening the Shadow of Majesty performed seventeen 
hundred genuflections ! I do not grudge the Lord Com- 
missioner his two thousand pounds. Verily, the laborer 
is worthy of his hire. The vale of life is not without its 
advantages. 



32 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 



STIRLING AND THE NORTH. 

EDINBURGH and Stirling are spinster sisters, who 
were both in their youth beloved by Scottish kings; 
but Stirling is the more wrinkled in feature, the more 
old-fashioned in attire, and not nearly so well to do in the 
world. She smacks more of the antique time, and wears 
the ornaments given her by royal lovers — sadly broken 
and worn now, and not calculated to yield much if brought 
to the hammer — more ostentatiously in the public eye 
than does Edinburgh. On the whole, perhaps, her stock 
of these red sandstone gewgaws is the more numerous. In 
many respects there is a striking likeness between the 
two cities. Betvveen them they in a manner monopolize 
Scottish history ; kings 'dwelt in both, — in and around 
both may yet be seen traces of battle. Both have castles 
towering to heaven from the crests of up-piled rocks ; both 
towns are hilly, rising terrace above terrace. The country 
around Stirling is interesting from its natural beauty no 
less than from its historical associations. Many battles 
were fought in the seeing of the castle towers. Stirhng 
Bridge, Carron, Bannockburn, Sauchieburn, Sheriffmuir, 
Falkirk, — these battle-fields lie in the immediate vicinity. 
From the field of Bannockburn you obtain the finest view 
of Stirling. The Ochills are around you. Yonder sleeps 
the Abbey Craig, where, on a summer day, Wight Wal- 
lace sat. You behold the houses climbing up, pictu- 
resque, smoke-feathered ; and the wonderful rock, in which 
the grace of the lily and the strength of the hills are min- 



VIEW FROM STIRLING. S3 

gled, and on which the castle sits as proudly as ever did 
rose on its stem. Eastward from the castle ramparts 
stretches a great plain, bounded on either side by moun- 
tains, and before you the vast fertility dies into distance, 
flat as the ocean when winds are asleep. It is through 
this plain that the Forth has drawn her glittering coils, — 
a silvery entanglement of loops and links, — a watery 
labyrinth, — which Macneil has sung in no ignoble num- 
bers, and which every summer the whole world flocks to 
see. Turn round, look in the opposite direction, and the 
aspect of the country has entirely changed. It undulates 
like a rolling sea. Heights swell up into the blackness 
of pines, and then sink away into valleys of fertile green. 
At your feet the Bridge of Allan sleeps in azure smoke, 
— the most fashionable of all the Scottish spas, wherein, 
by hundreds of invalids, the last new novel is being dili- 
gently perused. Beyond are the classic woods of Keir ; 
and ten miles farther what see you ? A multitude of 
blue mountains climbing the heavens ! The heart leaps 
up to greet them, — the ramparts of a land of romance, 
from the mouths of whose glens broke of old the foray of 
the freebooter; and with a chief in front, with banner 
and pibroch in the wind, the terror of the Highland war. 
Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Low- 
lands together. 

Standing on the ramparts of Stirling Castle, the spec- 
tator cannot help noticing an unsightly excrescence of 
stone and lime rising on the brow of the Abbey Craig. 
This is the Wallace Tower. Designed to commemorate 
the war for independence, the building is making but slow 
progress. It is maintained by charitable contributions, 
like a lying-in hospital. It is a big beggar man, like 
O' Conn ell. It is tormented by an eternal lack of pence, 
2* c 



34 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

like Mr. Dick Swiveller. It sends round the hat as fre- 
quently as ever did Mr. Leigh Hunt. The Wallace 
Monument, like the Scottish Eights' Association, sprang 
from the desire — a good deal stronger a few years ago 
than now — to preserve in Scotland something of a sep- 
arate national existence. Scotland and England were 
married at the Union; but by many Scotsmen it is con- 
sidered more dignified that, while appearing as "one 
flesh" on great public occasions, the two countries should 
live in separate apartments, see their own circles of friends, 
and spend their time as to each other it may seem fit. 
Whether any good could arise from such a state of mat- 
ters it is needless to inquire, — such a state of matters 
being a plain impossibility. It is apparent that through 
intimate connection, community of interest, the presence 
of one common government, and in a thousand other 
ways. Time is crumbling down Scotland and England 
into — Britain. We may storm against this from plat- 
forms, declaim passionately against it in " Lays of the 
Cavaliers," lift up our voices and weep over it in " Brae- 
mar Ballads," but necessity cares little for these things, 
and quietly does her work. In Scotland one is continu- 
ally coming into contact with an unreasonable prejudice 
against English manners, institutions, and forms of 
thought; and in her expression of these prejudices Scot- 
land is frequently neither great nor dignified. There is 
a narrowness and touchiness about her which is more 
frequently found in villages than in great cities. She 
continually suspects that the Englishman is about to 
touch her thistle rudely, or to take liberties with her 
unicorn. Some eight years ago, when lecturing in Ed- 
inburgh, Mr. Thackeray was hissed for making an allu- 
sion to Queen Mary. The audience knew perfectly well 



NARROWNESS OF SCOTTISH FEELING. 35 

that the great satirist was correct in what he stated ; but 
being an Engh'shman it was impertinent in him to speak 
the truth about a Scottish Queen in the presence of 
Scotsmen. When, on the other hand, an English orator 
comes amongst us, whether as Lord Rector at one of our 
universities, or the deliverer of an inaugural address at 
the Philosophical Institution in Edinburgh, and winds up 
liis harangue with flowing allusions to Wallace, Bruce, 
Burns, our blue hills, John Knox, Caledonia stern and 
wild, the garb of old Gaul, — the closing sentences are 
lost to the reporters in the frantic cheers of the audi- 
ence. Several years ago the Scottish Rights' Associa- 
tion, headed by the most chivalric nobleman, and by the 
best poet in Scotland, surrounded by a score of merchant 
princes, assembled in the City Hall of Glasgow, and for 
a whole night held high jubilee. The patriotic fervors, 
the eloquent speeches, the volleys of cheers, did not so 
much as break a single teacup or appoint a new police- 
man. Even the eloquent gentleman who volunteered 
to lay down his head at Carlisle in support of the good 
cause has never been asked to implement his promise. 
The patriot's head is of more use to himself than it can 
possibly be to any one else. And does not this same 
prejudice against England, this indisposition to yield up 
ancient importance, this standing upon petty dignity, live 
in the cry for Scottish University reform ? Is not this 
the heart of the matter, — because England has universi- 
ties, rich with gifts of princes and the bequests of the 
charitable, should not Scotland have richly-endowed uni- 
versities also ? In nature the ball fits into the socket 
more or less perfectly ; and the Scottish universities are 
what the wants and requirements of the Scottish people 
have made them. We cannot grow in a day an Oxford 



36 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

or a Cambridge on this northern soil ; and could Scots- 
men forget that they are Scotsmen they would see that 
it is not desirable so to do. Our universities have sent 
forth for generations physicians, lawyers, divines prop- 
erly enough qualified to fulfil their respective duties ; and 
if every ten years or so some half-dozen young men ap- 
pear with an appetite for a higher education than Scot- 
land can give, and with means to gratify it, what then ? 
In England there are universities able and willing to 
supply their wants. Their doors stand open to the Scot- 
tish youth. Admitting that we could by governmental 
interference or otherwise make our Scottish universities 
equal to Oxford or Cambridge in wealth and erudition, 
would we benefit thereby the half-dozen ambitious Scot- 
tish youth ? Not one whit. Far better that they should 
conclude their education at an English university, — in 
that wider confluence of the streams of society, — amid 
those elder traditions of learning and civility. 

And yet this erection of the Wallace Tower on the 
Abbey Craig has a deeper significance than its promoters 
are in the least degree aware of. There is a certain pro- 
priety in the building of a Wallace Monument. Scot- 
land has been united to England, and is beginning to lose 
remembrance of her independence and separate history, 
— just as the matron in her conjoint duties and interests 
begins to grow unfamiliar with the events of her girl- 
hood, and with the sound of her maiden name. It is 
only when the memory of a hero ceases to be a living 
power in the hearts of men that they think of raising a 
monument to him. Monuments are for the dead, not for 
the living. When we hear that some venerable sheik 
has taken to call public meetings in Mecca, to deliver 
speeches, and to issue subscription lists for the purpose 



DOUNE CASTLE. 37 

of raising a monument to Mohammed, and that these 
efforts are successful, we shall be quite right in thinking 
that the crescent is in its wane. Although the subscrib- 
ers think it something quite other, the building of the 
"Wallace Monument is a bidding farewell to Scottish 
nationality. 

It is from Stirling that I start on my summer journey, 
and the greater portion of it I purpose to perform on 
foot. There is a railway now to Callander, whereby 
time is saved and enjoyment destroyed, — but the rail- 
way I shall in nowise patronize, meaning to abide by the 
old coach road. In a short time you are beyond the 
Bridge of Allan, beyond the woods of Keir, and holding 
straight on to Dunblane. Reaching it, you pause for a 
little on the old bridge to look at the artificial waterfall, 
and the ruined cathedral on the rising ground across the 
stream, and the walks which Bishop Leighton paced. 
There is really not much to detain one in the little gray 
city, and pressing on, you reach Doune, basking on the 
hillside. Possibly the reader may never have heard 
of Doune, yet it has its lions. What are these ? Look 
at the great bulk of the ruined castle ! These towers, 
rising from miles of summer foliage into fair sunlight, 
a great Duke of Albany beheld for a moment, with a 
shock of long-past happiness and home, as he laid down 
his head on the block at Stirling. Rage and shame filled 

the last heave of the heart, the axe flashed, and . 

As you go down the steep town road, there is an old- 
fashioned garden and a well close to the wall. Look into 
it steadily, — you observe a shadow on the sandy bottom, 
and the twinkle of a fin. 'T is a trout, — a blind one, 
which has dwelt, the people will tell you, in its watery 
cage, for ten years back. It is considered a most respect- 



38 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

able inhabitant, and the urchin daring to angle for it 
would hardly escape whipping. You may leave Doune 
now. A Duke of Albany lost his head in the view of its 
castle, a blind trout lives in its well, and visitors feel 
more interested in the trout than in the duke. The 
country in the immediate vicinity of Doune is somewhat 
bare and unpromising, but as you advance it improves, 
and a few miles on, the road skirts the Teith, the sweet- 
est voiced of all the Scottish streams. The Roman cen- 
turion heard that pebbly murmur on his march even as 
you now hear it. The river, like all beautiful things, is 
coquettish, and just when you come to love her music, 
she sweeps away into the darkness of the woods and 
leaves you companionless on the dusty road. Never 
mind, you will meet her again at Callander, and there, 
for a whole summer day, you can lean on the bridge and 
Hsten to her singing. Callander is one of the prettiest 
of Highland villages. It was sunset as I approached it 
first, years ago. Beautiful the long crooked street of 
whitewashed houses dressed in rosy colors. Prettily 
dressed children were walking or running about. The 
empty coach was standing at the door of the hotel, and 
the smoking horses were being led up and down. And 
right in front stood King Benledi, clothed in imperial 
purple, the spokes of splendor from the sinking sun ray- 
ing far away into heaven from behind his mighty shoul- 
ders. 

Callander sits like a watcher at the opening of the 
glens, and is a rendezvous of tourists. To the right is 
the pass of Leny, — well worthy of a visit. You ascend 
a steep path, birch-trees on right and left ; the stream 
comes brawling down, sleeping for a moment in black 
pools beloved by anglers, and then hastening on in foam 



LOCH ACHRAY. — THE TROSACHS. 39 

and fury to meet her sister in the Vale of Menteith be- 
low. When you have climbed the pass, you enter on a 
green treeless waste, and soon approach Loch Lubnaig, 
with the great shadow of a hill blackening across it. 
The loch is perhaps cheerful enough when the sun is 
shining on it, but the sun in that melancholy region is 
but seldom seen. Beside the road is an old churchyard, 
for which no one seems to care, — the tombstones being 
submerged in a sea of rank grass. The loch of the rue- 
ful countenance will not be visited on the present occa- 
sion. My course lies round the left flank of Benledi, 
straight on for the Trosachs and Loch Katrine. Leav- 
ing Callander, you cross the waters of the Leny, — 
changed now from the fury that, with raised voice and 
streaming tresses, leaped from rock to rock in the glen 
above, — and walk into the country made immortal by 
the " Lady of the Lake." Every step you take is in the 
footsteps of Apollo : speech at once becomes song. There 
is Coilantogle Ford ; Loch Venachar, yonder, is glitter- 
ing away in windy sunshine to the bounding hills. Pass- 
ing the lake you come on a spot where the hillside drops 
suddenly down on the road. On this hillside Vich 
Alpine's warriors started out of the ferns at the whistle 
of their chief; and if you travelled on the coach, the 
driver would repeat half the poem with curious varia- 
tions, and point out the identical rock against which Fitz- 
James leaned, — rock on which a dozen eye-glasses are 
at once levelled in wonder and admiration. The love- 
liest sight on the route to the Trosachs is about to pre- 
sent itself At a turn of the road Loch Achray is before 
you. Beyond expression beautiful is that smiling lake, 
mirroring the hills, whether bare and green or plumaged 
with woods from base to crest. Fair azure gem in a 



40 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

setting: of mountains ! the traveller — even if a bagman 
— cannot but pause to drink in its foiry beauty ; cannot 
but remember it when far away amid other scenes and 
associations. At every step the scenery grows wilder. 
Loch Achray disappears. High in upper air tower the 
summits of Ben-Aan and Ben-Venue. You pass through 
the gorge of the Trosachs, whose rocky walls, born in 
earthquake and fiery deluge, the fanciful summer has 
been dressing these thousand years, clothing their feet 
with drooping ferns and rods of foxglove bells, blacken- 
ing their breasts with pines, feathering their pinnacles 
with airy birches, that dance in the breeze like plumage 
on a warrior's helm. The wind here becomes a musician. 
Echo sits babbling beneath the rock. The gorge, too, is 
but the prelude to a finer charm ; for before you are 
aware, doubling her beauty with surprise, there breaks 
on the sight the silver sheet of Loch Katrine, with a 
dozen woody islands, sleeping peacefully on their shadows. 
On the loch the steamer Rob Roy awaits you, and 
away you pant and fume towards a wharf, and an inn, 
with an unpronounceable name, at the farther end. The 
lake does not increase in beauty as you proceed. All its 
charms are congregated at the mouth of the Trosachs, 
and the upper reaches are bare, desolate, and uninterest- 
ing. You soon reach the wharf, and after your natural 
rage at a toll of twopence exacted from you on landing 
has subsided, and you have had a smack of something at 
the inn, you start on the wild mountain road towards In- 
versnaid. The aspect of the country has now changed. 
The hills around are bare and sterile, brown streams 
gurgle down their fissures, the long yellow ribbon of road 
runs away before you, dipping out of sight sometimes, 
and reappearing afar. You pass a turf hut, and your 



INVERSNAID. 41 

nostrils are invaded by a waft of peat reek, which sets 
you coughing, and brings the tears into your eyes ; and 
the juvenile natives eye you askance, and wear the airiest 
form of the national attire. In truth, there is not a finer 
bit of highland road to be found anywhere than that 
which runs between the inn — which, like the Russian 
heroes in " Don Juan," might be immortal if the name of 
it could be pronounced by human organs — and the hotel 
at Inversnaid. When you have travelled some three 
miles, the scenery improves, the hills rise into nobler 
forms, with misty wreaths about them, and as you pursue 
your journey a torrent becomes your companion. Pres- 
ently, a ruin rises on the hillside, the nettles growing on 
its melancholy walls. It is the old fort of Inversnaid, 
built in King William's time to awe the turbulent clans. 
Nothing can be more desolate than its aspect. Sunshine 
seems to mock it ; it is native and endued into its element 
when wrapt in mist or pelted by the wintry rain. Pass- 
ing the old stone-and-lime mendicant on the hillside, — 
by the way, tradition mumbles something about General 
Wolfe having been stationed thereat the beginning of 
his military career, — you descend rapidly on Loch Lo- 
mond and Inversnaid. The road by this time has be- 
come another Pass of Leny : on either side the hills 
approach, the torrent roars down in a chain of cataracts, 
and, in a spirit of bravado, takes its proudest leap at the 
last. Quite close to the fall is the hotel ; and on the frail 
timber bridge that overhangs the cataract you can see 
groups of picturesque-hunters, the ladies gracefully timid, 
the gentlemen gallant and reassuring. Inversnaid is 
beautiful, and it possesses an added charm in being the 
scene of one of Wordsworth's poems ; and he who has 
stood on the crazy bridge and watched the flash and thun- 



42 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

der of the stream beneath him, and gazed on the lake 
surrounded by mountains, will ever after retain the pic- 
ture in remembrance, although to him there should not 
have been vouchsafed the vision of the " Highland Girl." 
A steamer picks you up at Inversnaid, and slides down 
Loch Lomond with you to Tarbet, a village sleeping in 
very presence of the mighty Ben, whose forehead is 
almost always bound with a cloudy handkerchief. Al- 
though the loch is finer higher up, where it narrows 
toward Glen Falloch — more magnificent lower down, 
where it widens, many-isled, toward Balloch — it is by 
no means to be despised at Tarbet. Each bay and prom- 
ontory wears its peculiar charm ; and if the scenery does 
not astonish, it satisfies. Tarbet can boast, too, of an 
excellent inn, in which, if the traveller be wise, he will, 
for one night at least, luxuriously take his ease. 

Up betimes next morning, you are on the beautiful 
road which runs between Tarbet and Arrochar, and begin, 
through broken, white upstreaming mists, to make ac- 
quaintance with the " Cobbler " and some other peaks of 
that rolHng country to which Celtic facetiousness has 
given the name of "The Duke of Argyle's Bowling- 
green." Escaping from the birches that line the road, 
and descending on Arrochar and Loch Long, you can 
leisurely inspect the proportions of the mountain Crispin. 
He is a grewsome carle, and inhospitable to strangers. 
He does not wish to be intruded upon, — is a very her- 
mit, in fact; for when, after wild waste of breath and 
cuticle, a daring mortal climbs up to him, anxious to be 
introduced, behold he has slipped his cable, and is no- 
where to be seen. And it does not improve the temper 
of the climber that, when down again, and casting up his 
eyes, he discovers the rocky figure sitting in his accus- 



THE "COBBLEE." 43 

tomed place. The Cobbler's Wife sits a little way off, — 
an ancient dame, to the full as withered in appearance as 
her husband, and as difficult of access. They dwell in 
tolerable amity the twain, but when they do quarrel it is 
something tremendous ! The whole county knows when 
a tiff is in progress. The sky darkens above them. The 
Cobbler frowns black as midnight. His Wife sits sulk- 
ing in the mist. His Wife's conduct aggravates the Cob- 
bler, — who is naturally of a peppery temper, — and he 
gives vent to a discontented growl. Nothing loath, and 
to the full as irascible as her spouse, his Wife spits back 
fire upon him. The row begins. They flash at one 
another in the savagest manner, scolding all the while 
in the grandest Billingsgate. Everything listens to them 
for twenty miles around. At last the Wife gives in, and 
falls to downright weeping, the crusty old fellow sending 
a shot into her at intervals. She cries, and he grumbles, 
into the night. Peace seems to have been restored some- 
how when everybody is asleep ; for next morning the 
Cobbler has renewed his youth. He shines in the sun 
like a very bridegroom, — not a frown on the old counte- 
nance of him ; and his Wife opposite, the tears hardly 
dried upon her face yet, smiles upon him through her 
prettiest headdress of mist ; and for the next six weeks 
they enjoy as bright, unclouded weather as husband and 
wife can expect in a w^orld where everything is imperfect. 
You leave the little village of Arrochar, trudge round 
the head of Loch Long, and proceeding downward, along 
the opposite shore, and skirting the base of the Cobbler, 
strike for the opening of Glencroe, on your road to In- 
verary. Glencoe is to the other Highland glens what 
Tennyson is to contemporary British poets. If Glencoe 
^id not exist, Glencroe would be famous. It is several 



44 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

miles long, lonely, sterile, and desolate. A stream rages 
down the hollow, fed by tributary burns that dash from 
the receding mountain-tops. The hillsides are rough 
with boulders, as a sea -rock is rough with limpets. 
Showers cross the path a dozen times during the finest 
day. As you go along, the glen is dappled with cloud- 
shadows ; you hear the bleating of unseen sheep, and the 
chances are, that, in travelling along its whole extent, 
opportunity will not be granted you of bidding " good- 
morrow " to a single soul. If you are a murderer, you 
could shout out your secret here, and no one be a bit the 
wiser. At the head of the glen the road becomes exceed- 
ingly steep ; and as you pant up the incline, you hail the 
appearance of a stone seat bearing the welcome motto, 
" Rest, and be thankful." You rest, and are thankful. 
This seat was erected by General Wade while engaged 
in his great work of Highland road-making ; and so long 
as it exists the General will be remembered, — and Earl 
Russell too. At this point the rough breast of a hill rises 
in front, dividing the road ; the path to the left runs away 
down into the barren and solitary Hell's Glen, in haste 
to reach Loch Goil ; the other to the right leads through 
bare Glen Arkinglass, to St. Catherine's, and the shore 
of Loch Fyne, at which point you arrive after a lonely 
walk of two hours. 

The only thing likely to interest the stranger at the 
little hostelry of St. Catherine's is John Campbell, the 
proprietor of the same, and driver of the coach from the 
inn to the steamboat wharf at Loch Goil. John has a 
presentable person and a sagacious countenance ; his gray 
eyes are the homes of humor and shrewdness ; and when 
seated on the box, he flicks his horses and manages the 
ribbons to admiration. He is a good story-teller, and he 



JOHN CAMPBELL. 45 

knows it. He has not started on his journey a hundred 
yards, when, from something or another, he finds you 
occasion for a story, which is sure to produce a roar of 
laughter from those alongside of, and behind, him. En- 
couraged by success, John absolutely coruscates, anecdote 
follows anecdote as flash of sheet-lightning succeeds flash 
of sheet-lightning on a summer night ; and by the time 
he is half-way, he is imj^lored to desist by some sufferer 
whose midi'iff he has convulsed. John is naturally a 
humorist; and as every summer and autumn the High- 
lands are overrun with tourists, he, from St. Catherine's 
to Loch Goil, surveys mankind with extensive view. In 
his time he has talked with most of our famous men, and 
can reproduce their tones to perfection. It is curious to 
notice how literary and political greatness picture them- 
selves in the eyes of a Highland coachman ! The lion 
who entrances the soirees has his mane clipped. For 
John Campbell, cliques and coteries, and the big guns 
of the reviews, exist not. To him Fame speaks in 
Gaelic, and concerns herself mainly with sheep and black 
cattle. What is the good of being a distinguished novel- 
ist if you cannot swallow a glass of bitters of a morning ? 
John will distinguish between Tupper and Tennyson, and 
instruct you which is the better man, but he will draw 
his conclusions from their " tips " rather than from their 
poetry. He will agree with you that Lord Palmerston 
is a distinguished individual ; but while you are thinking 
of the Premier's statesmanship, he is thinking of the Pre- 
mier's jauntiness on the morning he had the honor of 
driving him. John's ideas of public men, although ar- 
rived at after a curious fashion, are pretty generally cor- 
rect. Every one who tarries at St. Catherine's should 
get himself driven across to Loch Goil by John Camp- 



46 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

bell, and should take pains to procure a seat on the box 
beside him. When he returns to the south, he can relate 
over again the stories he hears, and make himself the 
hero of them. The thing has been done before, and will 
be again. 

A small wash-tub of a steamer carries you across Loch 
Fyne to Inverary in an hour. Arriving, you find the 
capital of the West Highlands a rather pretty place, with 
excellent inns, several churches, a fine bay, a ducal resi- 
dence, a striking conical hill ■■ — Duniquoich the barbarous 
name of it — wooded to the chin, and with an ancient 
watch-tower perched on its bald crown. The chief seat 
of the Argyles cannot boast of much architectural beauty, 
being a square building with pepper-box-looking towers 
stuck on the corners. The grounds are charming, con- 
taining fine timber, winding walks, stately avenues, gar- 
dens, and through all, spanned by several bridges, the 
Airy bubbles sweetly to the sea. Scott is here. If the 
" Lady of the Lake " rings in your ears at the Trosachs, 
the " Legend of Montrose " haunts you at Inverary. 
Every footstep of ground is hallowed by that noble ro- 
mance. It is the best guide-book to the place. No tour- 
ist should leave Inverary before he ascends Duniquoich, 
— no very difficult task either, for a path winds round 
and round it. When you emerge from the woods beside 
the watch-tower on the summit, Inverary, far beneath, 
has dwindled to a toy- town, — not a sound is in the 
streets ; unheard the steamer roaring at the wharf, and 
urging dilatory passengers to haste by the clashes of an 
angry bell. Along the shore nets stretched from pole to 
pole wave in the drying wind. The great boatless blue 
loch stretches away flat as a ball-room floor ; and the eye 
wearies in its flight over endless miles of brown moor 



KILCHURN CASTLE. 47 

and mountain. Turn your back on the town, and gaze 
towards the north. It is still " a far cry to Loch Awe," 
and a wilderness of mountain-peaks tower up between 
you and that noblest of Scottish lakes ! — of all colors 
too, — green with pasture, brown with moorland, touched 
with the coming purple of the heather, black with a 
thunder-cloud of pines. What a region to watch the sun 
go down upon ! But for that you cannot wait, for to-day 
you lunch at Cladich, dine at Dalmally, and sleep in the 
neighborhood of Kilchurn, — in the immediate presence 
of Ben Cruachan. 

A noble vision of mountains is to be obtained from the 
road above Cladich. Dalmally is a very paradise of a 
Highland inn, — quiet, sequestered, begirt with the 
majesty and the silence of mountains, — a place where 
a world-weary man may soothe back into healthful mo- 
tion jarred pulse and brain ; a delicious nest for a happy 
pair to waste the honeymoon in. Dalmally stands on 
the shores of Loch Awe, and in the immediate vicinity 
of Kilchurn Castle and Ben Craachan. The Castle is 
picturesque enough to please the eye of the landscape- 
painter, and large enough to impress the visitor with a 
sense of baronial grandeur. And it is ancient enough, 
and fortunate enough too — for to that age does not 
always attain — to have legends growing upon its walls 
like the golden lichens or the darksome ivies. The vast 
shell of a building looks strangely impressive standing 
there, mirrored in summer waters, with the great moun- 
tain looking down on it. It was built, it is said, by a 
lady in the Crusade times, when her lord was battling 
with the inlQdel. The most prosaic man gazing on a ruin 
becomes a poet for the time being. You incontinently 
sit down, and think how, in the old pile, life went on 



48 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

for generations, — how children were born and grew up 
there, — how brides were brought home there, the bridal 
blushes yet on their cheeks, — how old men died there, 
and had by filial fingers their eyes closed, as blinds are 
drawn down on the windows of an empty house, and the 
withered hands crossed decently upon the breasts that 
will heave no more with any passion. The yule fires, 
and the feast fires that blazed on the old hearths have 
gone out now. The arrow of the foeman seeks no longer 
the window slit. To day and night, to winter and sum- 
mer, Kilchurn stands empty as a skull ; yet with no 
harshness about it ; possessed rather of a composed and 
decent beauty, — reminding you of a good man's grave, 
with the number of his ripe years, and the catalogue of 
his virtues chiselled on the stone above him : telling of 
work faithfully done, and of the rest that follows, for 
which all the weary pine. 

Ben Cruachan, if not the monarch of Scottish moun- 
tains, is, at all events, one of the princes of the blood. 
He is privileged to wear a snow-wreath in presence of 
the sun at his midsummer levee, and like a prince he 
wears it on the rough breast of him. Ben Cruachan is 
seen from afar; is difficult to climb, and slopes slowly 
down to the sea level, his base being twenty miles in 
girth, it is said. From Ben Cruachan and Kilchurn, 
Loch Awe, bedropt with wooded islands, stretches Oban- 
wards, presenting in its course every variety of scenery. 
Now the loch spreads like a sea, now it shrinks to a 
rapid river, — now the banks are wooded like the Tro- 
sachs, now they are bare as the " Screes " at Wastwater ; 
and consider as you walk along what freaks light and 
shade are playing every moment, — how shadows, hun- 
dred-armed, creep along the mountain-side, — how the 



LOCH AWE. 49 

wet rock sparkles like a diamond, and then goes out, — 
how the sunbeam slides along a belt of pines, — and 
how, a slave to the sun, the lake quivers in light around 
her islands when he is unobscured, and wears his sable 
colors when a cloud is on his face. On your way to 
Oban there are many places worth seeing : Loch Etive, 
with its immemorial pines, beloved by Professor Wilson ; 
Bunawe, Taynult, Connel Ferry, with its sea view and 
salt-water cataract; and Dunstaffnage Castle, once a 
royal residence, and from which the stone was taken 
which is placed beneath the coronation chair at West- 
minster. And so, if the whole journey from Inverary is 
performed on foot, Luna will light the traveller into 
Oban. 



60 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 



OBAN. 

OBAN, which, during winter, is a town of deserted 
hotels, begins to get busy by the end of June. 
Yachts skim about in the little bay ; steamers, deep-sea 
and coasting, are continually arriving and departing ; 
vehicles rattle about in the one broad, and the many 
narrow streets ; and in the inns, boots, chamber-maid, 
and waiter are distracted with the clangor of innumera- 
ble bells. Out of doors, Oban is not a bad representa- 
tion of Vanity Fair. Every variety of pleasure-seeker 
is to be found there, and every variety of costume. 
Reading parties from Oxford lounge about, smoke, stare 
into small shop windows, and consult " Black's Guide." 
Beauty, in light attire, perambulates the principal street, 
and taciturn Valor in mufti accompanies her. Sports- 
men in knickerbockers stand in groups at the hotel 
doors ; Frenchmen chatter and shrug their shoulders ; 
stolid Germans smoke curiously-curved meerschaum 
pipes ; and individuals who have not a drop of Highland 
blood in their veins flutter about in the garb of the Gael, 
"a hunelredweight of cairngorms throwing a prismatic 
glory around their persons." All kinds of people, and 
all kinds of sounds are there. From the next street the 
tones of the bagpipe come on the ear ; tipsy porters 
abuse each other in Gaelic. Round the corner the mail 
comes rattling from Fort William, the passengers clus- 
tering on its roof; from the pier the bell of the departing 
steamer urges passengers to make haste ; and passengers 



OBAN. 51 

who have lost their luggage rush about, shout, gesticu- 
late, and not unfrequently come into fierce personal col- 
lision with one of the tipsy porters aforesaid. A more 
hurried, nervous, frenzied place t|ian Oban, during the 
summer and autumn months, it is difficult to conceive. 
People seldom stay there above a night. The old famil- 
iar faces are the resident population. The tourist no 
more thinks of spending a week in Oban than he thinks 
of spending a week in a railway station. When he 
arrives his first question is after a bedroom ; his second, 
as to the hour at which the steamer from the south is 
expected. 

And the steamer, be it said, does not always arrive at 
a reasonable hour. She may be detained some time at 
Greenock ; in dirty weather she may be " on " the Mull 
of Cantyre all night, buffeted by the big Atlantic there ; 
so that he must be a bold man, or a man gifted with the 
second sight, who ventures anything but a vague guess 
as to the hour of her arrival at Oban. And the weather 
is dirty ; the panes are blurred with rain-drops ; outside 
one beholds an uncomfortable sodden world, a spongy 
sky above, and midway, a gull sliding sideways through 
the murky atmosphere. The streets are as empty now 
as they will be some months hence. Beauty is in her 
own room crying over " Enoch Arden," and Valor, 
taciturn as ever, is in the smoking saloon. The Oxford 
reading i3arty — which, under the circumstances, has not 
the slightest interest in Plato — attempts, with no great 
success, to kill the time by playing at pitch-and-toss. 
The gentlemen in the Highland dress remain indoors, — 
birds with fine feathers do not wish to have them drag- 
gled, — and the philabeg and an umbrella would be a com- 
bination quite too ridiculous. The tipsy porter is for the 
time silent ; but from the next street the bagpipe grows 



52 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

in volume and torture. How the sound of it pains the 
nervous ear of a man half-maddened by a non-arriving 
steamer and a rtiiny day at Oban ! Heavily the hours 
creep on ; and at last the Clansman does steam in with 
wet decks — thoroughly washed by Atlantic brine last 
night — and her hundred and fifty passengers, two thirds 
of whom are sea-sick. 

I do not, however, proceed with the Clansman. I am 
waited for at Inverness ; and so, when the weather has 
cleared, on a lovely morning, I am chasing the flying 
dazzle of the sun up the lovely Linnhe Loch ; past hills 
that come out on one and recede ; past shores that con- 
tinually shift and change ; and am at length set down at 
Fort William in the shadow of Ben Nevis. 

When a man goes to Caprera, he, as a matter of 
course, brings a letter of introduction to Garibaldi, — 
when I went to Fort William, I, equally as a matter of 
course, brought a letter of introduction to Long John. 
This gentleman, the distiller of the place, was the tallest 
man I ever beheld out of an exhibition, — whence his 
familiar sobriquet, — and must, in his youth, have been 
of incomparable physique. The German nation has not 
yet decided whether Goethe or Schiller is the greater 
poet, — the Highlander has not yet decided whether 
" Long John " or " Talisker " is the finer spirit. I pre- 
sented my letter and was received with the hospitality 
and courteous grace so characteristic of the old Gael. 
He is gone now, the happy-hearted Hercules, — gone like 
one of his own drams ! His son distils in his stead, — 
but he must feel that he is treading in the footsteps of 
a greater man. The machinery is the same, the malt is 
of quality as fine, but he will never produce whiskey like 
him who is no more. The text is tlje same, but Charles 
Kean's Hamlet will never be like his father's. 



CULLODEN. 53 

I saw Inverlochy Castle, and thought of the craven 
Argyle, the gallant Montrose, the slaughtered Camp- 
bells. I walked up Glen Nevis ; and then, one summer 
morning, I drove over to Bannavie, stepped on board a 
steamer, and was soon in the middle of the beautiful 
Loch Lochy. 

And what a day and what a sail that was ! What a 
cloudless sky above ! What lights and shadows as we 
w^ent ! On Fort Augustus we descended by a staircase 
of locks, and while there I spent half an hour in the 
museum of Roualeyn Gordon-Cumming. We then en- 
tered Loch Ness, — stopped for a space to visit the Fall 
of Foyers, which, from scarcity of water, looked " seedy " 
as a moulting peacock ; saw farther on, and on the oppo- 
site shore, a promontory run out into the lake like an 
arm, and the vast ruin of Castle Urquhart at the end 
of it like a clenched fist, — menacing all and sundry. 
Then we went on to Inverness where I found my friend 
Fellowes, who for some time back had been amusing 
himself in that pleasant Highland town reading law. 
We drove out to CuUoden, and stood on the moor at 
sunset. Here the butcher Cumberland trod out romance. 
Here one felt a Jacobite and a Roman Catholic. The 
air seemed scented by the fumes of altar-incense, by the 
burning of pastiles. The White Rose was torn and 
scattered, but its leaves had not yet lost their odors. " I 
should rather have died," I said, "like that wild chief, 
who, when his clan would not follow him, burst into 
tears at the ingratitude of his children, and charged alone 
on the English bayonets, than like any other man of 
whom I have read in history." 

" He wore the sole pair of brogues in the possession 
of his tril)e," said my companion. " I should rather have 
died like Salkeld at the blowing in of the Delhi gate." 



54 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 



SKYE AT LAST. 

WHILE tarrying at Inverness, a note which we 
had been expecting for some little time reached 
Fellowes and myself from M'lan junior, to the effect 
that a boat would be at our service at the head of Loch 
Eishart on the arrival at Broadford of the Skye mail; 
and that six sturdy boatmen would therefrom convey 
us to our destination. This information was satisfactory, 
and we made our arrangements accordingly. The coach 
from Inverness to Dingwall — at which place we were 
to catch the mail — was advertised to start at four 
o'clock in the morning, and to reach its bourne two hours 
afterwards ; so, to prevent all possibility of missing it, 
we resolved not to go to bed. At that preposterous 
hour we were in the street with our luggage, and in a 
short time the coach — which seemed itself not more 
than half awake — came lumbering up. For a while 
there was considerable noise ; bags and parcels of various 
kinds were tumbled out of the coach oifice, mysterious 
doors were opened in the body of the vehicle into which 
these were shot. The coach stowed away its parcels in 
itself, just as in itself the crab stows away its food and 
impedimenta. We clambered up into the front beside 
the driver, who was enveloped in a drab great-coat of 
many capes; the guard was behind. "All right," and 
then, with a cheery chirrup, a crack of the whip, a snort 
and toss from the gallant roadsters, we were off. There 
is nothing so delightful as travelling on a stage coach, 



ON THE SKYE MAIL. 55 

when you start in good condition, and at a reasonable 
hour. For myself, I never tire of the varied road flash- 
ing past, and could dream through a country in that way 
from one week's end to the other. On the other hand, 
there is nothing more horrible than starting at four a. m., 
half awake, breakfastless, the chill of the morning play- 
ing on your face as the dewy machine spins along. Your 
eyes close in spite of every effort, your blood thick with 
sleep, your brain stuffed with dreams; you wake and 
sleep, and wake again ; and the Vale of Tempe itself, 
with a Grecian sunrise burning into day ahead, could not 
rouse you into interest, or blunt the keen edge of your 
misery. I recollect nothing of this portion of our journey 
save its disagreeableness ; and alit at Dingwall, cold, 
wretched, and stiff, with a cataract of needles and pins 
pouring down my right leg, and making locomotion any- 
thing but a pleasant matter. However, the first stage 
was over, and on that we congratulated ourselves. Alas ! 
we did not know the sea of troubles into which we were 
about to plunge, — the Iliad of misfortune of which we 
were about to become the heroes. We entered the inn, 
performed our ablutions, and sat down to breakfast with 
appetite. Towards the close of the meal my companion 
suggested that, to prevent accidents, it might be judicious 
to secure seats in the mail without delay. Accordingly 
I went in quest of the landlord, and after some diffi- 
culty discovered him in a small office littered with bags 
and parcels, turning over the pages of a ledger. He 
did not lift his eyes when I entered. I intimated my 
wish to procure two places toward Broadford. He turned 
a page, lingered on it with his eye as if loath to leave 
it, and then inquired my business. I repeated my mes- 
sage. He rhook his head. " You are too late ; you can't 



56 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

get on to-day." " What ! can't two places be had ? " 
" Not for love or money, sir. Last week Lord Deer- 
stalker engaged the mail for his servants. Every place 
is took." " The dense ! do you mean to say that we 
can't get on?" The man, whose eyes had returned to 
the page, which he held all the while in one hand, nod- 
ded assent. " Come, now, this sort of thing won't do. 
My friend and I are anxious to reach Broadford to-night. 
Do you mean to say that we must either return or wait 
here till the next mail comes up, some three days hence ? " 
" You can post, if you like : I '11 provide you with a 
machine and horses." " You '11 provide us with a ma- 
chine and horses," said I, while something shot through 
my soul like a bolt of ice. 

I returned to Fellowes, who replied to my recital of 
the interview with a long whistle. When the mail was 
gone, we formed ourselves into a council of war. After 
considering our situation from every side, we agreed to 
post, unless the landlord should prove more than ordina- 
rily rapacious. I went to the little office and informed 
him of our resolution. We chaffered a good deal, but at 
last a bargain was struck. I will not mention what cur- 
rent coin of the realm was disbursed on the occasion ; the 
charge was as moderate as in the circumstances could 
have been expected. I need only say that the journey 
was long, and to consist of six stages, a fresh horse at 
every stage. 

In due time a dog-cart was brought to the door, in 
which was harnessed a tall raw-boned white horse, who 
seemed to be entering in the sullen depths of his con- 
sciousness a protest against our proceedings. We got in, 
and the animal was set in motion. There never was 
such a slow brute. He evidently disliked his work: 



THE WHITE HORSE. 57 

perhaps he snuffed the rainy tempest imminent. Wlio 
knows ? At all events, before he was done with us he 
took ample revenge for every kick and objurgation which 
we bestowed on him. Half an hour after starting, a 
huge rain-cloud was black above us ; suddenly we noticed 
one portion crumble into a livid streak which slanted 
down to earth, and in a minute or two it burst upon us 
as if it had a personal injury to avenge. A scold of the 
Cowgate, emptying her wrath on the husband of her 
bosom, who has reeled home to her tipsy on Saturday 
night, with but half his wages in his pocket, gives but a 
faint image of its virulence. Umbrellas and oil-skins — 
if we had had them — would have been useless. In less 
than a quarter of an hour we were saturated like a bale 
of cotton which has reposed for a quarter of a century at 
the bottom of the Atlantic; and all the while, against 
the fell lines of rain, heavy as bullets, straight as cavalry 
lances, jogged the white horse, heedless of cry and blow, 
with now and again but a livelier prick and motion of 
the ear, as if to him the whole thing was perfectly de- 
lightful. The first stage was a long one ; and all the 
way from Strathpeffer to Garve, from Garve to Mill- 
town, the rain rushed down on blackened wood, hissed in 
marshy tarn, boiled on iron crag. At last the inn was 
descried afar ; a speck of dirty white in a world of rainy 
green. Hope revived within us. Another horse could 
be procured there. O Jarvie, cudgel his bones amain, 
and Fortune may yet smile ! 

On our arrival, however, we were informed that cer- 
tain travellers had, two hours before, possessed them- 
selves of the only animal of which the establishment 
could boast. At this intelligence hope fell down stone 
dead as if shot through the heart. There was nothing 
3* 



58 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

for it but to give our steed a bag of oats, and then to hie 
on. While the white was comfortably munching his 
oats, we noticed from the inn-door that the wet yellow 
road made a long circuit, and it occurred to us that if we 
struck across country for a mile or so at once, we could 
reach the point where the road disappeared in the dis- 
tance quite as soon as our raw-boned friend. In any case 
waiting was weary work, and we were as wet now as we 
could possibly be. Instructing the driver to wait for us 
should we not be up in time, — of which we averred 
there was not the slightest possibility, — we started. We 
had firm enough footing at first ; but after a while our 
journey was the counterpart of the fiend's passage through 
chaos, as described by Milton. Always stick to beaten 
tracks ; short cuts, whether in the world of matter, or in 
the world of ethics, are bad things. In a little time we 
lost our way, as was to have been expected. The wind 
and rain beat right in our faces, we had swollen streams 
to cross, we tumbled into morasses, we tripped over knot- 
ted roots of heather. When, after a severe march of a 
couple of hours, we gained the crest of a small eminence, 
and looked out on the wet, black desolation, Fellowes 
took out a half-crown from his waistcoat pocket, and ex- 
pressed his intention there and then to "go in" for a 
Highland property. From the crest of this eminence, 
too, we beheld the yellow road beneath, and the dog-cart 
waiting ; and when we got down to it, found the driver 
so indignant that we thought it prudent to propitiate him 
with our spirit flask. A caulker turneth away wrath — 
in the Highlands at least. 

Getting in again the white went at a better pace, the 
rain slackened somewhat, and our spirits rose in propor- 
tion. Our hilarity, however, was premature. A hill rose 



THE WHITE HORSE. 59 

before us, up which the yellow road twisted and wriggled 
itself. This hill the white would in nowise take. The 
whip was of no avail ; he stood stock-still. Fellowes 
applied his stick to his ribs, — the white put his fore legs 
steadily out before him and refused to move. I jumped 
out, seized the bridle, and attempted to drag him for- 
ward ; the white tossed his head high in air, showing at 
the same time a set of vicious teeth, and actually backed. 
What was to be done? Just at this moment, too, a 
party of drovers, mounted on red, uncombed ponies, with 
hair hanging over their eyes, came up, and had the ill- 
feeling to tee-hee audibly at our discomfiture. This was 
another drop of acid squeezed into the bitter cup. Sud- 
denly, at a well-directed whack, the white made a des- 
perate plunge and took the hill. Midway he paused, and 
attempted his old game, but down came a hurricane of 
blows, and he started off, — 

" 'T were long to tell and sad to trace " 

the annoyance that raw-boned quadruped wrought us. 
But it came to an end at last. And at parting I waved 
the animal, sullen and unbeloved, my last farewell ; and 
wished that no green paddock should receive him in his 
old age, but that his ill-natured flesh should be devoured 
by the hounds, that leather should be made of his be- 
cudgelled hide, and hoped that, considering its toughness, 
of it should the boots and shoes of a poor man's children 
be manufactured. 

Late in the afternoon we reached Jean-Town, on the 
shores of Loch Carron. 'T is a tarry, scaly village, with 
a most ancient and fish-like smell. The inhabitants have 
suffered a sea-change. The men stride about in leather 
fishing-boots, the women sit at the open doors at work 



60 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

with bait-baskets. Two or three boats are moored at 
the stone-heaped pier. Brown, idle nets, stretched on 
high poles along the beach, flap in the winds. We had 
tea at the primeval inn, and on intimating to the landlord 
that we wished to proceed to Broadford, he went oflf to 
engage a boat and crew. In a short time an old sea-dog, 
red with the keen breeze, and redolent of the fishy brine, 
entered the apartment with the information that every- 
thing was ready. We embarked at. once, a sail was 
hoisted, and on the vacillating puff of evening we 
dropped gently down the loch. There was something 
in the dead silence of the scene and the easy motion of 
the boat that affected one. Weary with travel, worn 
out with want of sleep, yet, at the same time, far from 
drowsy, with every faculty and sense rather in a condi- 
tion of wide and intense wakefulness, everything around 
became invested with a singular and frightful feeling. 
Why^ I know not, for I have had no second experience 
of the kind ; but on this occasion, to my overstrained 
vision, every object became instinct with a hideous and 
multitudinous life. The clouds congealed into faces and 
human forms. Figures started out upon me from the 
mountain-sides. The rugged surfaces, seamed with tor- 
rent lines, grew into monstrous figures, and arms with 
clutching fingers. The sweet and gracious shows of 
nature became, under the ma^ic of lassitude, a phantas- 
magoria hateful and abominable. Fatigue changed the 
world for me as the microscope changes a dew-drop, — 
when the jewel, pure from the womb of the morning, be- 
comes a world swarming with unutterable life, — a battle- 
field of unknown existences. As the aspects of things 
grew indistinct in the fading light, the possession lost its* 
pain ; but the sublimity of one illusion will be mem- 



A PHOSPHORESCENT SEA. 61 

orable. For a barrier of mountains standing high above 
the glimmering lower world, distinct and purple against 
a "daffodil sky," seemed the profile of a gigantic man 
stretched on a bier, and the features, in their sad imperial 
beauty, seemed those of the first Napoleon. Wonderful 
that mountain-monument as we floated seaward into dis- 
tance, — the figures sculptured by earthquake, and fiery 
deluges sleeping up there, high above the din and strife 
of earth, robed in solemn purple, its background the 
yellow of the evening sky ! 

About ten we passed the rocky portals of the loch on 
the last sigh of evening, and stood for the open sea. 
The wind came only in intermitting puffs, and the boat- 
men took to the oars. The transparent autumn night 
fell upon us ; the mainland was gathering in gloom be- 
hind, and before us rocky islands glimmered on the level 
deep. To the chorus of a GaeHc song of remarkable 
length and monotony the crew phed their oars, and every 
plash awoke the lightning of the main. The sea was 
filled with elfin fire. I hung over the stern and watched 
our brilliant wake seething up into a kind of pale emer- 
ald, and rushing away into the darkness. The coast on 
our left had lost form and outline, withdrawing itself into 
an undistinguishable mass of gloom, when suddenly the 
lights of a village broke clear upon it like a bank of 
glow-worms. I inquired its name, and was answered, 
" Plockton." In half an hour the scattered lights be- 
came massed into one ; soon that died out in the distance. 
Eleven o'clock ! Like one man the rowers pull. The 
air is chill on the ocean's face, and we wrap ourselves 
more closely in our cloaks. There is something uncom- 
fortable in the utter silence and loneliness of the hour ; 
in the phosphorescent sea, with its ghostly splendors. 



62 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

The boatmen, too, have ceased singing. Would that I 
were taking mine ease with MTan ! Suddenly a strange 
sighing sound is heard behind. One of the crew springs 
up, hauls down the sail, and the next moment the squall 
is upon us. The boatmen hang on their oars, and you 
hear the rushing rain. Whew ! how it hisses down on 
us, crushing everything in its passion. The long dim 
stretch of coast, the dark islands, are in a moment shut 
out ; the world shrinks into a circumference of twenty 
yards, and within that space the sea is churned into a 
pale illumination, — a light of misty gold. In a moment 
we are wet to the skin. The boatmen have shipped their 
oars, drawn their jacket-collars over their ears, and there 
we lie at midnight shelterless to the thick hiss of the 
rain. But it has spent itself at last, and a few stars are 
again twinkling in the blue. It is plain our fellows are 
somewhat tired of the voyage. They cannot depend 
upon a wind ; it will either be a puff, dying as soon as 
born, or a squall roaring down on the sea through the 
long funnels of the glens ; and to pull all the way is a 
dreary affair. The matter is laid before us ; the voices 
of the crew are loud for our return. They will put us 
ashore at Plockton ; they will take us across in the morn- 
ing. A cloud has again blotted the stars, and we con-* 
sent. Our course is altered, the oars are pulled with 
redoubled vigor; soon the long dim line of coast rises 
before us, but the lights have burned out now, and the 
Plocktonites are asleep. On we go ; the boat shoots into 
a " midnight cove," and we leap out upon masses of slip- 
pery sea-weed. The craft is safely moored. Two of the 
men seize our luggage, and we go stumbling over rocks, 
until the road is reached. A short walk brings us to the 
inn, or rather public-house, which is, however, closed for 



AT PLOCKTON. 63 

the night. After some knocking we were admitted, wet 
as Newfoundlands from the lake. Wearied almost to 
death I reached ray bedroom, and was about to divest 
myself of my soaking garments, when, after a low tap 
at the door, the owner of the boat entered. He stated 
his readiness to take us across in the morning, — he would 
knock us up shortly after dawn ; but as he and his com- 
panions had no friends in the place, they would, of course, 
have to pay for their beds and their breakfasts before 
they sailed ; " an' she was shure the shentlemens waana 
expect her to pay the same." With a heavy heart I sat- 
isfied the cormorant. He insisted on being paid his full 
hire before he left Jean-Town, too ! Before turning in, 
I looked what o'clock. One in the morning ! In three 
hours M'lan will be waiting in his galley at the head of 
Eishart's Loch. Unfortunates that we are ! 

At least, thought I when I awoke, there is satisfaction 
in accomplishing something quite peculiar. There are 
many men in the world who have performed extraordi- 
nary actions ; but Fellowes and myself may boast, with- 
out fear of contradiction, that we are the only travellers 
who ever arrived at Plockton. Looking to the rotten- 
ness of most reputations now-a-days, our feat is distinction 
sufficient for the ambition of a private man. We ought 
to be made lions of when we return to the abodes of civ- 
ilization. I have heard certain beasts roar, seen them 
wag their tails to the admiration of beholders, and all on 
account of a slighter matter than that we wot of. Who, 
pray, is the pale gentleman with the dishevelled locks, 
yonder, in the flower-bed of ladies, to whom every face 
turns? What! don't you know? The last new poet; 
author of the " Universe." Splendid performance. Pooh ! 
a reed shaken by the wind. Look at us. We are the 



64 A SUaOIER IN SKYE. 

men who arrived at Plockton ! But, heavens ! the boat- 
men should have been here ere this. Alarmed, I sprang 
out of bed, clothed in haste, burst into Fellowes's room, 
turned him out, and then proceeded down stairs. No 
information could be procured, nobody had seen our crew. 
That morning they had not called at the house. After a 
while a fisherman sauntered in, and in consideration of 
certain stimulants to be supplied by us, admitted that our 
fellows were acquaintances of his own ; that they had 
started at daybreak, and would now be far on their way 
to Jean-Town. The scoundrels, so overpaid too ! Well, 
well, there's another world. With some difficulty we 
gathered from our friend that a ferry from the mainland 
to Skye existed at some inconceivable distance across 
the hills, and that a boat perhaps might be had there. 
But how was the ferry to be reached ? No conveyance 
could be had at the inn. We instantly despatched scouts 
to every point of the compass to hunt for a wheeled ve- 
hicle. At height of noon our messengers returned with 
the information that neither gig, cart, nor wheelbarrow 
could be had on any terms. What was to be done ? I 
was smitten by a horrible sense of helplessness; it 
seemed as if I were doomed to abide forever in that 
dreary place, girdled by these gray rocks scooped and 
honeycombed by the washing of the bitter seas, — were 
cut off from friends, profession, and delights of social in- 
tercourse, as if spirited away to fairy-land. I felt my- 
self growing a fisherman, like the men about me ; Gaelic 
seemed forming on my tongue. Fellowes, meanwhile, 
with that admirable practical philosophy of his, had lit a 
cigar, and was chatting away with the landlady about 
the population of the village, the occupations of the in- 
habitants, their ecclesiastical history. I awoke from my 



RELEASE. 65 

gloomy dream as she replied to a question of his, — "The 
last minister was put awa for drinkin' ; but we Ve got a 
new ane, a Mr. Cammil, an' verra weel liket he is." 
The words were a ray of light, and suggested a possible 
deliverance. I slapped him on the shoulder, crying, " I 
have it ! There was a fellow-student of mine in Glas- 
gow, a Mr. Donald Campbell, and it runs in my mind 
that he was preferred to a parish in the Highlands some- 
where ; what if this should prove the identical man ? 
Let us call upon him." The chances were not very 
much in our favor ; but our circumstances were despe- 
rate, and the thing was worth trying. The landlady sent 
her son with us to point the way. We knocked, were 
admitted, and shown to the tiny drawing-room. While 
waiting, I observed a couple of photograph cases on the 
table. These I opened. One contained the portrait of 
a gentleman in a white neckcloth, evidently a clergyman ; 
the other that of a lady, in all likelihood his spouse. 
Alas! the gentleman bore no resemblance to my Mr. 
Campbell : the lady I did not know. I laid the cases 
down in disappointment, and began to frame an apology 
for our singular intrusion, when the door opened, and 
my old friend entered. He greeted us cordially, and I 
wrung his hand with fervor. I told him our adventure 
with the Jean-Town boatmen, and our consequent help- 
lessness ; at which he laughed, and offered his cart to 
convey ourselves and luggage to Kyleakin ferry, which 
turned out to be only six miles off. Genial talk about 
college scenes and old associates brought on the hour of 
luncheon ; that concluded, the cart was at the door. In 
it our things were placed; farewells were uttered, and 
we departed. It was a wild, picturesque road along 
which we moved j sometimes comparatively smooth, but 



66 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

more frequently rough and stony, as the dry torrent's 
bed. Black dreary wastes spread around. Here and 
there we passed a colony of turf-huts, out of which wild 
ragged children, tawny as Indians, came trooping, to 
stare upon us as we passed. But the journey was at- 
tractive enough ; for before us rose a permanent vision 
of mighty hills, with their burdens of cloudy rack ; and 
every now and then, from an eminence, we could mark, 
against the land, the blue of the sea flowing in, bright 
with sunlight. We were once more on our way; the 
minister's mare went merrily; the breeze came keen 
and fresh against us ; and in less than a couple of hours 
we reached Kyleakin. 

The ferry is a narrow passage between the mainland 
and Skye ; the current is powerful there, difficult to pull 
against on gusty days ; and the ferrymen are loath to 
make the attempt unless well remunerated. When we 
arrived we found four passengers waiting to cross ; and 
as their appearance gave prospect of an insufficient sup- 
ply of coin, they were left sitting on the bleak windy 
rocks until some others should come up. It was as easy 
to pull across for ten shillings as for two ! One was a 
girl, who had been in service in the south, had taken 
ill there, and was on her way home to some wretched 
turf-hut on the hillside, in all likelihood to die ; the sec- 
ond a little cheery Irishwoman, with a basketful of 
paper ornaments, with the gaudy colors and ingenious 
devices of which she hoped to tickle the sesthetic sensi- 
bilities, and open the purses, of the Gael. The third 
and fourth were men, apparently laborious ones ; but 
the younger informed me he was a schoolmaster, and 
it came out incidentally in conversation that his school- 
house was a turf-cabin, his writing-table a trunk, on 



KYLEAKIN. 67 

which his pupils wrote by turns. Imagination sees his 
young kilted friends kneeling on the clay floor, labo- 
riously forming pot-hooks there, and squinting horribly 
the while. The ferrymen began to bestir themselves 
wlien we came up ; and in a short time the boat was 
ready, and the party embarked. The craft was crank, 
and leaked abominably, but there was no help ; and our 
bags were deposited in the bottom. The schoolmaster 
worked an oar in lieu of payment. The little Irish- 
woman, with her precious basket, sat high in the bow, 
the laborer and the sick girl behind us at the stern. 
With a strong pull of the oars we shot out into the 
seething water. In a moment the Irishwoman is 
brought out in keen relief against a cloud of spray ; but, 
nothing daunted, she laughs out merrily, and seems to 
consider a ducking the funniest thing in the world. In 
another, I receive a slap in the face from a gush of blue 
water, and emerge, half blinded, and soaked from top to 
toe. Ugh, this sea-waltz is getting far from pleasant. 
The leak is increasing fast, and our carpet-bags are well- 
nigh afloat in the working bilge. We are all drenched 
now. The girl is sick, and Fellowes is assisting her 
from his brandy-flask. The little Irishwoman, erst so 
cheery and gay, with spirits that turned every circum- 
stance into a quip and crank, has sunk in a heap at the 
bow ; her basket is exposed, and the ornaments, shaped 
by patient fingers out of colored papers, are shapeless 
now ; the looped rosettes are ruined ; her stock-in-trade, 
pulp, — a misfortune great to her as defeat to an army, 
or a famine to a kingdom. But we are more than half- 
way across, and a little ahead the water is comparatively 
smooth. The boatmen pull with greater ease: the un- 
comfortable i^ensation at the pit of the stomach is re- 



68 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

dressed ; the white lips of the girl begin to redden some- 
what; and the bunch forward stirs itself, and exhibits 
signs of life. Fellowes bought up the contents of her 
basket, and a contribution of two-and-sixpence from my- 
self made the widow's heart to sing aloud for joy. On 
landing, our luggage is conveyed in a cart to the inn, 
and waits our arrival there. Meanwhile we warm our 
chilled limbs with a caulker of Glenlivet. "Blessing-s 
be with it, and eternal praise." How the fine spirit 
melts into the wandering blood, like "a purer light in 
light!" How the soft benignant fire streams through 
the labyrinthine veins, from brain to toe ! The sea is 
checkmated; the heart beats with a fuller throb; and 
the impending rheumatism flies afar. When we reached 
the inn, we seized our luggage in the hope of procuring 
dry garments. Alas ! when I went up stairs, mine might 
have been the carpet-bag of a merman ; it was wet to the 
inmost core. 

Soaked to the skin, it was our interest to proceed 
without delay. We waited on the landlord, and desired 
a conveyance. The landlord informed us that the only 
vehicle which he possessed was a phaeton, at present on 
hire till the evening, and advised us, now that it was 
Saturday, to remain in his establishment till Monday, 
when he could send us on comfortably. To wait till 
Monday, however, would never do. We told the man 
our story, how for two days we had been the sport of 
fortune, tossed hither and thither; but he — feeling he 
had us in his power — would render no assistance. We 
wandered out toward the rocks to hold a consultation, 
and had almost resolved to leave our things where they 
were, and start on foot, when a son of the innkeeper's 
joined us. He — whether cognizant of his parent's 



IN THE WILDERNESS. 6$ 

statement, I cannot say — admitted that there were a 
horse and gig in the stable ; that he knew Mr. M'lan's 
place, and offered to drive us to a little fishing village 
within three miles of it, where our things could be left, 
and a cart sent to bring them up in the evening. The 
charge was — never mind what ! — but we closed with it 
at once. We entered the inn while our friend went 
round to the stable to bring the machine to the door; 
met the landlord on the stairs, sent an indignant broad- 
side into him, which he received with the utmost cool- 
ness. The imperturbable man ! he swallowed our shot 
like a sandbank, and was nothing the worse. The horse 
was now at the door, in a few moments our luggage was 
stowed away, and we were off. Through seventeen 
miles of black moorland we drove almost without be- 
holding a single dwelling. Sometimes, although rarely, 
we had a glimpse of the sea. The chief object that 
broke the desolation was a range of clumsy red hills, 
stretching away like a chain of gigantic dust-heaps. 
Their aspect was singularly dreary and depressing. 
They were mountain plehs. Lava hardens into grim 
precipice, bristles into jagged ridge, along which the rack 
drives, now hiding, now revealing it ; but these had no 
beauty, no terror, ignoble from the beginning; dull off- 
spring of primeval mud. About seven p. M. we reached 
the village, left our things, still soaked in sea-water, in 
one of the huts, till Mr. MTan could send for them, and 
struck off on foot for the three miles which we were told 
yet remained. By this time the country had improved 
in appearance. The hills were swelling and green ; up 
these the road wound, fringed with ferns, mixed with the 
purple bells of the foxglove. A stream, too, evidently 
escaped from some higher mountain tarn, came dashing 



70 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

along in a succession of tiny waterfalls. A quiet pastoral 
region, but so still, so deserted ! Hardly a house, hardly 
a human being ! After a while we reached the lake, 
half covered with water-lilies, and our footsteps startled a 
brood of wild ducks on its breast. How lonely it looked 
in its dark hollow there, famihar to the cry of the wild 
bird, the sultry summer-cloud, the stars and meteors of 
the night, — strange to human faces, and the sound of 
human voices. But what of our three miles ? We have 
been walking for an hour and a half. Are we astray in 
the green wilderness ? The idea is far from pleasant. 
Happily a youthful native came trotting along, and of 
him we inquired our way. The boy looked at us, and 
shook his head. We repeated the question, still the 
same shy puzzled look. A proffer of a shilling, how- 
ever, quickened his apprehension, and returning with us 
a few paces, he pointed out a hill-road striking up 
through the moor. On asking the distance', he seemed 
put out for a moment, and then muttered, in his difficult 
English, " Four mile." Nothing more could be procured 
in the way of information ; so off went little Bare-legs, 
richer than ever he had been in his life, at a long swins;- 
ing trot, which seemed his natural pace, and which, I 
suppose, he could sustain from sunrise to sunset. To 
this hill-road we now addressed ourselves. It was sun- 
set now. Up we went through the purple moor, and in 
a short time sighted a crimson tarn, bordered with long 
black rushes, and as we approached, a duck burst from 
its face on " squattering '* wings, shaking the splendor into 
widening circles. Just then two girls came on the road 
with peats in their laps ; anxious for information, we 
paused, — they, shy as heath-hens, darted past, and, 
when fifty yards distant, wheeled suddenly round, and 



THE MEETING. 71 

burst into shrieks of laughter, repeated and re-repeated. 
In no laughing mood we pursued our way. The roud 
now began to dip, and we entered a glen plentifully cov- 
ered with birchwood, a stream keeping us company from 
the tarn above. The sun was now down, and objects at 
a distance began to grow uncertain in the evening mist. 
The horrible idea that we had lost our way, and were 
doomed to encamp on the heather, grew upon us. On ! 
on ! We had walked six miles since our encounter with 
the false Bare-legs. Suddenly we heard a dog bark ; 
that was a sign of humanity, and our spirits rose. Then 
we saw a troop of horses galloping along the bottom 
of the glen. Better and better. "'Twas an honest 
ghost, Horatio ! " All at once we heard the sound of 
voices, and Fellowes declared he saw something moving 
on the road. The next moment MTan and a couple of 
shepherds started out of the gloom. At sight of them 
our hearts burned within us, like a newly-poked fire. 
Sincere was the greeting, immense the shaking of hands ; 
and the story of our adventures kept us merry till we 
reached the house. 

Of our doughty deeds at supper I will not sing, nor 
state how the toddy-jugs were drained. Rather let me 
tell of those who sat with us at the board, — the elder 
Mr. MTan, and Father M'Crimmon, then living in the 
house. Mr. MTan, senior, was a man past eighty, but 
fresh and hale for his years. His figure was slight and 
wiry, his face a fresh pink, his hair like snow. Age, 
though it had bowed him somewhat, had not been able 
to steal the fire from his eye, nor the vigor from his 
limbs. He entered the army at an early age ; carried 
colors in Ireland before the century came in ; was with 
Moore at Corunna; followed Wellington through the 



72 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

Peninsular battles ; was with the 42d at Quatre Bras, 
and hurt there when the brazen cuirassiers came charg- 
ing through the tall rye-grass ; and, finally, stood at 
Waterloo in a square that crumbled before the artillery 
and cavalry charges of Napoleon, — crumbled, but never 
flinched! It was strange to think that the old man 
across the table breathed the same air with Marie- 
Antoinette ; saw the black cloud of the French Revolu- 
tion torn to pieces with its own lightnings, the eagles of 
Napoleon flying from Madrid to Moscow, Wellington's 
victorious career, — all that wondrous time which our 
fathers and grandfathers saw, which has become history 
now, wearing the air of antiquity almost. We look upon 
the ground out yonder from Brussels, that witnessed the 
struggle; but what the insensate soU, the woods, the 
monument, to the living eye in which was pictured the 
fierce strife ? to the face that was grimed with the veri- 
table battle-smoke ? to the voice that mingled in the last 
cheer, when the whole English line moved forward at 
sunset ? M'lan w^as an isle-man of the old school ; pene- 
trated through every drop of blood with pride of birth, 
and with a sense of honor which was like a second con- 
science. He had all the faults incidental to such a char- 
acter. He was stubborn as the gnarled trunk of the 
oak, full of prejudices which our enlightenment laughs 
at, but which we need not despise, for with our knowl- 
edge and our science, well will it be for us if we go to 
our graves with as stainless a name. He was quick and 
hasty of temper, and contradiction brought fire from him 
like steel from flint. Short and fierce were his gusts of 
passion. I have seen him of an evening, with quivering 
hands and kindling eye, send a volley of oaths into a 
careless servant, and the next moment almost the rev- 



FATHER M'CRIMMON. 73 

erend white head was bowed on his chair as he knelt at 
evening prayer. Of these faults, however, this evening 
we saw nothing. The old gentleman was kind and 
hospitable ; full of talk, but his talk seemed to us of old- 
world things. On Lords Palmerston and Derby he was 
silent ; he was eloquent on Mr. Pitt and Mr. Fox. He 
talked of the French Revolution and the actors thereof 
as contemporaries. Of the good Queen Victoria (for 
history is sure to call her that) he said nothing. His 
heart was with his memory, in the older days when 
George III. was king, and not an old king neither. 

Father M'Crimmon was a tall man, being in height 
considerably above six feet. He was thin, like his own 
island, where the soil is washed away by the rain, leav- 
ing bare the rock. His face was mountainously bony, 
with great pits and hollows in it. His eyes were gray, 
and had that depth of melancholy in them which is so 
often observed in men of his order. In heart he was 
simple as a child; in discourse slow, measured, and 
stately. There was something in his appearance that 
suggested the silence and solitude of the wilderness ; of 
hours lonely to the heart, and bare spaces lonely to the 
eye. Although of another, and — as I think, else I should 
not profess it — a purer faith, I respected him at first, 
and loved him almost when I came to know him. Was 
it wonderful that his aspect was sorrowful, that it wore a 
wistful look, as if he had lost something which could 
never be regained, and that forevermore the sunshine 
was stolen from his smile ? He was by his profession 
cut off from all the sweet ties of human nature, from all 
love of wife or child. His people were widely scattered : 
across the black moor, far up the hollow glens, blustering 
with winds or dimmed with the rain-cloud. Thither the 
4 



74 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

grim man followed them, officiating on rare festival occa- 
sions of marriage and christening ; his face bright, not 
like a window ruddy with a fire within, rather like a 
wintry pane tinged by the setting sun, — • a brief splendor 
that warms not, and but divides the long cold day that 
has already passed from the long cold night to come. 
More frequently he was engaged dispensing alms, giving 
advice in disaster, waiting by the low pallets of the fever- 
stricken, listening to the confession of long-hoarded guilt, 
comforting the dark spirit as it passed to its audit. It is 
not with viands like these you furnish forth life's ban- 
quet ; not on materials like these you rear brilliant spirits 
and gay manners. He who looks constantly on death 
and suffering, and the unspiritual influences of hopeless 
poverty, becomes infected with congenial gloom. Yet 
cold and cheerless as may be his hfe, he has his reward ; 
for in his wanderings through the glens there is not an 
eye but brightens at his approach, not a mourner but 
feels he has a sharer in his sorrow ; and when the tall, 
bony, seldom-smiling man is borne at last to his grave, 
round many a fireside will tears fall and prayers be said 
for the good priest M'Crimmon. 

All night sitting there, we talked of strange 

" Unhappy far-off things 
And battles long ago," 

blood-crusted clan-quarrels, bitter wrongs and terrible 
revenges : of wraiths and bodings, and pale death-lights 
burning on the rocks. The conversation was straightfor- 
ward and earnest, conducted with perfect faith in the 
subject-matter ; and I listened, I am not ashamed to con- 
fess, with a curious and not altogether unpleasant thrill 
of the blood. For, I suppose, however sceptical as to 
ghosts the intellect may be, the blood is ever a believer 



GHOST STORIES. 75 

as it runs cMU through the veins. A new world and 
order of things seemed to gather round us as we sat 
there. One was carried away from all that makes up 
the present, — the policy of Napoleon III., the death of 
President Lincoln, the character of his successor, the 
universal babblement of scandal and personal talk, — and 
brought face to face with tradition ; with the ongoings of 
men who lived in solitary places, whose ears were con- 
stantly filled with the sough of the wind, the clash of the 
wave on the rock ; whose eyes were open on the flinty 
cliff, and the floating forms of mists, and the dead silence 
of pale sky dipping down far off on the dead silence of 
black moor. One was taken at once from the city streets 
to the houseless wilderness ; from the smoky sky to the 
blue desert of air stretching from mountain range to 
mountain range, with the poised eagle hanging in the 
midst, stationary as a lamp. Perhaps it was the faith of 
the speakers that impressed me most. To them the 
stories were much a matter of course ; the supernatural 
atmosphere had become so famihar to them that it had 
been emptied of all its wonder and the greater part of its 
terror. Of this I am quite sure, that a ghost story, told 
in the pit of a theatre, or at Vauxhall, or walking 
through a lighted London street, is quite a different thing 
from a ghost story told, as I heard it, in a lone Highland 
dwelling, cut off from every habitation by eight miles of 
gusty wind, the sea within a hundred feet of the walls, 
the tumble of the big wave, and the rattle of the pebbles, 
as it washes away back again, distinctly heard where you 
sit, and the talkers making the whole matter " stuff o' the 
conscience." Very different ! You laugh in the theatre, 
and call the narrator an ass ; in the other case you listen 
silently, with a scalp creeping as if there were a separate 
life in it, and the blood streaming coldly down the back. 



76 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

Young M'lan awoke me next morning. As I came 
down stairs lie told me, had it not been Sunday he would 
have roused me with a performance on the bagpipes. 
Heaven forfend ! I never felt so sincere a Sabbatarian. 
He led me some little distance to a favorable point of rock, 
and lo ! across a sea, sleek as satin, rose a range of hills, 
clear against the morning, jagged and notched like an old 
sword-blade. " Yonder," said he, pointing, " beyond the 
black mass in front, just where the shower is falling, lies 
Lake Coruisk. I '11 take you to see it one of these 



AT MR. M'lAN'S. 77 



AT MR. M'lAN'S. 

THE farm which Mr. M'lan rented was, in compan- 
son with many others in the island, of but moderate 
extent ; and yet it skirted the sea-shore for a considera- 
ble distance, and comprised within itself many a rough 
hill, and many a green valley. The house was old-fash- 
ioned, was harled all over with lime, and contained a 
roomy porch, over which ivies clustered, a dining-room, 
a drawing-room, a lot of bedrooms, and behind, and built 
out from the house, an immense kitchen, with a flagged 
floor and a huge fireplace. A whole colony of turf-huts, 
with films of blue smoke issuing from each, were scattered 
along the shore, lending a sort of homely beauty to the 
wild picturesqueness. Beside the house, with a ruined 
summer-seat at one end, was a large carelessly kept gar- 
den, surrounded by a high stone wall. M'lan kept the 
key himself; and on the garden door were nailed ravens 

and other feathered malefactors in difierent staires of de- 
cs 

cay. Within a stone's throw from the porch were one 
or two barns, a stable, a wool-house, and other outhouses, 
in which several of the servants slept. M'lan was care- 
ful of social degree, and did not admit every one to his 
dining-room. He held his interviews with the common 
people in the open air in front of the house. When a 
drover came for cattle he dined solitarily in the porch, 
and the dishes were sent to liim from M'lan's table. The 
drover was a servant, consequently he could not sit at 
meat with my friend; he was more than a servant for 



78 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

the nonce, inasmuch as he was his master's representa- 
tive, and consequently he could not be sent to the kitchen ; 
the porch was therefore a kind of convenient middle 
place: neither too high nor too humble, it was, in fact, 
a sort of social purgatory. But Mr. M'lan did not judge 
a man by the coat he wore, nor by the amount of money 
in his purse. When Mr. Macara, therefore, the super- 
annuated schoolmaster, who might have been a licentiate 
of the Church thirty years before, had he not brought his 
studies in divinity to a close by falling in love, marry- 
ing, and becoming the father of a large family ; or when 
Peter, the meek-faced violinist, who was of good de- 
scent, being the second cousin of a knight-bachelor on 
his mother's side, and of an Indian general on his father's, 
— when these men called at the house, they dined — 
with obvious trepidation, and sitting at an inconvenient 
distance, so that a morsel was occasionally lost on its 
passage from plate to mouth — at M'lan's own table ; and 
to them the old gentleman, who would have regarded the 
trader worth a million as nothing better than a scullion, 
talked of the old families and the old times. M'lan 
valued a man for the sake of his grandfather rather than 
for the sake of himself. The shepherds, the shepherds' 
dogs, and the domestic servants dined in the large 
kitchen. The kitchen was the most picturesque apart- 
ment in the house. There was a huge dresser near the 
small dusty window ; in a dark corner stood a great cup- 
board in which crockery was stowed away. The walls 
and rafters were black with peat-smoke. Dogs were 
continually sleeping on the floor with their heads resting 
on their outstretched paws ; and from a frequent start and 
whine, you knew that in dream they were chasing a flock 
of sheep along the steep hillside, their masters shouting 



THE BLACK KITCHEN. 79 

out orders to ttem from the valley beneath. The fleeces 
of sheep which had been found dead on the mountain 
were nailed on the walls to dry. Braxy hams were sus- 
pended from the roof; strings of fish were hanging above 
the fireplace. The door was almost continually open, 
for by the door light mainly entered. Amid a savory 
steam of broth and potatoes, the shepherds and domestic 
servants drew in long backless forms to the table, and 
dined innocent of knife and fork, the dogs snapping and 
snarling among their legs ; and when the meal was over 
the dogs licked the platters. Macara, who was some- 
thing of a poet, would, on his occasional visits, translate 
Gaelic poems for me. On one occasion, after one of these 
translations had been read, I made the remark that a 
similar set of ideas occurred in one of the songs of Burns. 
His gray eyes immediately blazed up ; he rushed into a 
Gaelic recitation of considerable length ; and, at its close, 
snapping defiant fingers in my face, demanded, " Can you 
produce anything out of your Shakespeare or your Burns 
equal to thatV Of course I could not; and I fear I 
aggravated my original offence by suggesting that in all 
likelihood my main inability to produce a passage of 
corresponding excellence from the southern authors arose 
from my entire ignorance of the language of the native 
bard. When Peter came with his violin the kitchen was 
cleared after nightfall ; the forms were taken away, can- 
dles stuck into the battered tin sconces, the dogs uncere- 
moniously kicked out, and a somewhat ample ball-room 
was the result. Then in came the girls, with black 
shoes and white stockings, newly-washed faces and nicely- 
smoothed hair ; and with them came the shepherds and 
men-servants, more carefully attired than usual. Peter 
took his seat near the fire; MTan gave the signal by 



80 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

clapping his hands ; up went the inspiriting notes of the 
fiddle and away went the dancers, man and maid facing 
each other, the girl's feet twinkling beneath her petticoat, 
not like two mice, but rather like a dozen; her kilted 
partner pounding the flag-floor unmercifully ; then man 
and maid changed step, and followed each other through 
loops and chains ; then they faced each other again, the 
man whooping, the girl's hair coming down with her 
exertions ; then suddenly the fiddle changed time, and 
with a cry the dancers rushed at each other, each pair 
getting linked arm in arm, and away the whole floor 
dashed into the whirlwind of the reel of Hoolichan. It 
was dancing with a will, — lyrical, impassioned ; the 
strength of a dozen fiddlers dwelt in Peter's elbow ; 
M'lan clapped his hands and shouted, and the stranger 
was forced to mount the dresser to get out of the way of 
whirling kilt and tempestuous petticoat. 

Chief amongst the dancers on these occasions were John 
Kelly, Lachlan Roy, and Angus-with-the-dogs. John 
Kelly was M'lan's principal shepherd, — a swarthy fel- 
low, of Irish descent, I fancy, and of infinite wind, en- 
durance, and capacity of drinking whiskey. He was a 
solitary creature, irascible in the extreme ; he crossed 
and recrossed the farm I should think some dozen times 
every day, and was never seen at church or market with- 
out his dog. With his dog only was John Kelly inti- 
mate, and on perfectly confidential terms. I often won- 
dered what were his thoughts as he wandered through the 
glens at early morning, and saw the fiery mists upstream- 
ing from the shoulders of Blaavin ; or when he sat on a 
sunny knoll at noon smoking a black broken pipe, and 
watching his dog bringing a flock of sheep down the 
opposite hillside. Whatever they were, John kept them 



LACHLAN ROY. 81 

strictly to himself. In the absorption of whiskey he was 
without a peer in my experience, although I have in my 
time encountered some rather distinguished practitioners 
in that art. If you gave John a glass of spirits, there 
was a flash, and it was gone. For a wager I once beheld 
him drink a bottle of whiskey in ten minutes. He drank 
it in cupfuls, saying never a word. When it was finished, 
he wrapt himself in his plaid, went out with his dog, and 
slept all night on the hillside. I suppose a natural in- 
stinct told him that the night air would decompose the 
alcohol for him. When he came in next morning his 
swarthy face was a shade paler than was its wont ; but 
he seemed to suffer no uneasiness, and he tackled to his 
breakfast like a man. 

Lachlan Roy was a little cheery, agile, red squirrel of 
a man ; and like the squirrel, he had a lot of nuts stowed 
away in a secret hole against the winter time. A more 
industrious little creature I have never met. He lived 
near the old castle of Dunsciach, where he rented a 
couple of crofts or so ; there he fed his score or two of 
sheep, and his half-dozen of black cattle ; and from thence 
he drove them to Broadford market twice or thrice in the 
year, where they were sure to fetch good prices. He 
knew the points of a sheep or a stirk as well as any man 
in the island. He was about forty-five, had had a wife 
and children, but they had all died years before ; and 
although a widower, Lachlan was as jolly, as merry-eyed 
and merry-hearted as any young bachelor shepherd in the 
country. He was a kindly soul, too, full of pity, and 
was constantly performing charitable ofiaces for his neigh- 
bors in distress. A jDOor woman in his neighborhood had 
lost her suckling child, and Lachlan came up to M'lan's 
house with tears in his eyes, seeking some simple cordials 
4* p 



82 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

and a bottle of wine. " Ay, it 's a sad thing, Mr. M'lan,'* 
he went on, " when death takes a child from the breast. 
A full breast and an empty knee, Mr. M'lan, makes a 
desolate house. Poor Mirren has a terrible rush of milk, 
and cold is the lip to-day that could relieve her. And 
she 's all alone, too, Mr. M'lan, for her husband is at 
Stornoway after the herring." Of course he got the 
cordials and the wine, and of course, in as short a space 
of time as was possible, the poor mother, seated on an 
upturned creel, and rocking herself to and fro over her 
clasped hands, got them also, with what supplementary 
aid Lachlan's own stores could afford. Lachlan was uni- 
versally respected, and when he appeared, every door 
opened cheerfully. At all dance gatherings at M'lan's 
he was certain to be present ; and old as he was com- 
paratively, the prettiest girl was glad to have him for 
a partner. He had a merry wit, and when he joked, 
blushes and titterings overspread in a moment all the 
young women's faces. On such occasions I have seen 
John Kelly sitting in a corner gloomily biting his nails, 
jealousy eating his heart. But Lachlan cared nothing 
for John's mutinous countenance, — he meant no harm, 
and he feared no man. Lachlan Roy, being interpreted, 
means red Lachlan ; and this cognomen not only drew 
its appropriateness from the color of his hair and beard ; 
it had, as I afterwards learned, a yet deeper significance. 
Lachlan, if the truth must be told, had nearly as fierce 
a thirst for strong waters as John Kelly himself, and that 
thirst on fair days, after he had sold his cattle at Broad- 
ford, he was wont plentifully to slake. His face, under 
the influence of liquor, became red as a harvest moon ; 
and as of this physiological peculiarity in himself he had 
the most perfect knowledge, he was under the impression 



ANGUS-WITH-THE-DOGS. 83 

that if he drew rein on this side of high alcoholic inflam- 
mation of countenance he was safe, and on the whole 
rather creditably virtuous than otherwise. And so, per- 
haps, he would have been, had he been able to judge for 
himself, or had he been placed amongst boon companions 
who were ignorant of his weakness or who did not wish 
to deceive him. Somewhat suspicious, when a fresh 
jorum was placed on the table, he would call out, " Don- 
ald, is my face red yet ? " Donald, who was perfectly 
aware of the ruddy illumination, would hypocritically 
reply, " Hoot ! Lachlan dear, what are ye speaking about ? 
Your face is just its own natural color. What should it 
be red for ? " '' Duncan, you scoundrel ! " he would cry 
fiercely at a later period, bringing his clenched fist down 
on the table and making the glasses dance, — " Duncan, 
you scoundrel, look me in the face ! " Thus adjured, 
Duncan would turn his uncertain optics on his flaming 
friend. " Is my face red yet, Duncan ? " Duncan, too 
far gone for speech, would shake his head in the gravest 
manner, plainly implying that the face in question was 
not red, and that there was not the least likelihood that 
it would ever become red. And so, from trust in the 
veracity of his fellows, Lachlan was at Broadford brought 
to bitter grief twice or thrice in the year. 

Angus- with-the-dogs was continually passing over the 
country, like the shadow of a cloud. If he had a home 
at all, it was situated at Ardvasar, near Armadale ; but 
there Angus was found but seldom. He was always 
wandering about with his gun over his shoulder, his ter- 
riers, Spoineag and Fruich, at his heels, and the kitchen 
of every tacksman was open to him. The tacksmen 
paid Angus so much per annum, and Angus spent his 
time in killing their vermin. He was a dead shot ; he 



84 A SUMMER m SKYE. 

knew the hole of the fox, and the cairn in which an otter 
would be found. If you wanted a brace of young fal- 
cons, Angus would procure them for you ; if ravens were 
breeding on one of your cliffs, you had but to wait till 
the young ones were half-fledged, send for Angus, and 
before evening the entire brood, father and mother in- 
cluded, would be nailed on your barn door. He knew 
the seldom-visited loch up amongst the hills which was 
haunted by the swan ; the cliff of the Cuchullins, on 
which the eagles dwelt ; the place where, by moonlight, 
you could get a shot at the shy heron. He knew all the 
races of dogs. In the warm blind pup he saw at a 
glance the future terrier or staghound. He could cure 
the distemper, could crop ears and dock tails. He could 
cunningly plait all kinds of fishing-tackle ; could carve 
quaichs, and work you curiously-patterned dagger-hilts 
out of the black bog-oak. If you wished a tobacco- 
pouch made of the skin of an otter or a seal, you had 
simply to apply to Angus. From his variety of accom- 
plishment, he was an immense favorite. The old farm- 
ers liked him because he was the sworn foe of polecats, 
foxes, and ravens; the sons of farmers valued him be- 
cause he was an authority in rifles and fowling-pieces, 
and knew the warm shelving rocks on which bullet-headed 
seals slept, and the cairns on the sea-shore in which otters 
lived ; and because if any special breed of dog was 
wanted, he was sure to meet the demand. He was a 
little, thick-set fellow, of great physical strength, and of 
the most obliging nature ; and he was called Angus-with- 
the-dogs, because without Spoineag and Fruich at his 
heels, he was never seen. The pipe was always in his 
mouth, — to him tobacco smoke was as much a matter of 
course as peat reek is to a turf-hut. 



WAITING FOR ANGUS. 85 

One day, after Fellowes had gone to the Landlord's, 
where I was to join him in a week or ten days, young 
M'lan and myself waited for Angus-with-the-dogs on one 
of the rising grounds at a little distance from the house. 
Angus in his peregrinations had marked a cairn in whicli 
he thought an otter would be found, and it was resolved 
that this cairn should be visited on a specified day about 
noon, in the hope that some little sport might be pro- 
vided for the Sassenach. About eleven, a. m., therefore, 
on the specified day we lay on the heather smoking. It 
was warm and sunny ; M'lan had thrown beside him on 
the heather his gun and shot-belt, and lay back luxuri- 
ously on his fragrant couch, meerschaum in mouth, his 
Glengary bonnet tilted forward over his eyes, his left leg 
stretched out, his right drawn up, and his brown hands 
clasped round the knee. Of my own position, which was 
comfortable enough, I was not at the moment specially 
cognizant ; my attention being absorbed by the scenery 
around, which was wild and strange. We lay on couches 
of purple heather, as I have said ; and behind were the 
sloping birch-woods, — birch-woods always remind one 
somehow of woods in their teens, — which ran up to the 
bases of white clifis traversed only by the shepherd and 
the shadows of hawks and clouds. The plateau on which 
we lay ran toward the sea, and suddenly broke down to 
it in little ravines and gorges, beautifully grassed and 
mossed, and plumed with bunches of ferns. Occasionally 
a rivulet came laughing and dancing down from rocky 
shelf to shelf. Of course, from the spot where we lay, 
this breaking down of the hill-face was invisible, but it 
was in my mind's eye all the same, for I had sailed along 
the coast and admired it a couple of days before. Right 
in front flowed in Loch Eishart, with its islands and 



86 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

white sea-birds. Down, in the right-hand corner, reduced 
in size by distance, the house sat on its knoll, like a white 
shell ; and beside it were barns and outhouses, the smok- 
ing turf-huts on the shore, the clumps of birch-wood, the 
thread of a road which ran down toward the stream from 
the house, crossed it by a bridge a little beyond the turf- 
huts and the boat-shed, and then came up towards us till 
it was lost in the woods. Right across the Loch were 
the round red hills that rise above Broadford ; and the 
entire range of the Cuchullins, — the outline wild, splin- 
tered, jagged, as if drawn by a hand shaken by terror or 
frenzy. A glittering mesh of sunlight stretched across 
the Loch, blinding, palpitating, ever-dying, ever-renewed. 
The bee came booming past, the white sea-gull swept 
above, silent as a thought or a dream. Gazing out on 
all this, somewhat lost in it, I was suddenly startled by a 
sharp whistle, and then I noticed that a figure was cross- 
ing the bridge below. MTan got up. " That 's Angus," 
he said ; " let us go down to meet him " ; and so, after 
knocking the ashes out of his pipe and filling it anew, 
picking up his gun and slinging his shot-belt across his 
shoulder, he led the way. 

At the bridge we found Angus seated, with his gun 
across his knee, and Spoineag and Fruich coursing about, 
and beating the bushes, from which a rabbit would occa- 
sionally bounce and scurry off. Angus looked more alert 
and intelligent than I had ever before seen him, — prob- 
ably because he had business on hand. We started at 
once along the shore at the foot of the cliffs above which 
we had been lying half an hour before. Our way lay 
across large boulders which had rolled down from the 
heights above, and progression, at least to one unaccus- 
tomed to such rough work, was by no means easy. An- 



THE OTTER HUNT. 87 

gus and M'lan stepped on lightly enough, the dogs kept 
up a continual barking and yelping, and were continually 
disappearing in rents and crannies in the cliffs, and emerg- 
ing more ardent than ever. At a likely place Angus 
would stop for a moment, speak a word or two to the 
dogs, and then they rushed barking at every orifice, en- 
tered with a struggle, and ranged through all the pas- 
sages of the hollow cairn. As yet the otter had not been 
found at home. At last when we came in view of a spur 
of the higher ground which, breaking down on the shore, 
terminated in a sort of pyramid of loose stones, Angus 
dashed across the broken boulders at a run, followed by 
his dogs. When they got up, Spoineag and Fruich, bark- 
ing as they had never barked before, crept in at all kinds 
of holes and impossible fissures, and were no sooner out 
than they were again in. Angus cheered and encour- 
aged them, and pointed out to M'lan traces of the otter's 
presence. I sat down on a stone and watched the be- 
havior of the terriers. If ever there was an insane dog, 
it was Fruich that day ; she jumped and barked, and got 
into the cairn by holes through which no other dog could 
go, and came out by holes through which no other dog 
could come. Spoineag, on the other hand, was compara- 
tively composed ; he would occasionally sit down, and 
taking a critical view of the cairn, run barking to a new 
point, and to that point Fruich would rush like a fury 
and disappear. Spoineag was a commander-in-chief, Fru- 
ich was a gallant general of division. Spoineag was 
WeUington, Fruich was the fighting Picton. Fruich had 
disappeared for a time, and from the muflled barking we 
concluded she was working her way to the centre of the 
citadel, when all at once Spoineag, as if moved by a sud- 
den inspii-ation, rushed to the top of the cairn, and began 



88 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

tearing up the turf with teeth and feet. Spoineag's 
eagerness now was as intense as ever Fruich's had been. 
Angus, who had implicit faith in Spoineag's genius, 
climbed up to assist, and tore away at the turf with his 
hands. In a minute or so Spoineag had effected an 
entrance from the top, and began to work his way down- 
wards. Angus stood up against the sky with his gun 
in readiness. We could hear the dogs barking inside, 
and evidently approaching a common centre, when all at 
once a fell tumult arose. The otter was reached at last, 
and was using teeth and claws. Angus made a signal to 
M'lan, who immediately brought his gun to his shoulder. 
The combat still raged within, and seemed to be com- 
ing nearer. Once Fruich came out howling with a 
bleeding foot, but a cry from Angus on the height sent 
her in again. All at once the din of barking ceased, and 
I saw a black lurching object flit past the stones towards 
the sea. Crack went MTan's gun from the boulder, 
crack went Angus's gun from the height, and the black 
object turned half round suddenly and then lay still. It 
was the otter ; and the next moment Spoineag and Fru- 
ich were out upon it, the fire of battle in their eyes, and 
their teeth fixed in its bloody throat. They dragged the 
carcass backwards and forwards, and seemed unable to 
sate their rage upon it. What ancient animosity existed 
between the families of otters and terriers ? What wrong 
had been done never to be redressed ? Angus came for- 
ward at last, sent Spoineag and Fruich howling right and 
left with his foot, seized the otter by the tail, and then 
over the rough boulders we began our homeward march. 
Our progress past the turf-huts nestling on the shore at 
the foot of the cliffs was a triumphal one. Old men, 
women, and brown half-naked children came out to gaze 



LOCH EISHART. 89 

upon us. When we got home the otter was laid on the 
grass in front of the house, where the elder M'lan came 
out to inspect it, and was polite enough to express his 
approval, and to declare that it was not much inferior in 
bulk and strength to the otters he had hunted and killed 
at the close of last century. After dinner young M'lan 
skinned his trophy, and nailed and stretched the hide on 
the garden gate amid the dilapidated kites and ravens. 
In the evening, Angus, with his gun across his shoulder, 
and Spoineag and Fruich at his heels, started for that 
mysterious home of his which was supposed to be at 
Ardvasar, somewhere in the neighborhood of Armadale 
Castle. 

A visit to Loch Coruisk had for some little time been 
meditated ; and in the evening of the day on which the 
otter was slain the boat was dragged from its shed down 
towards the sea, launched, and brought round to the rude 
pier, where it was moored for the night. We went to 
bed early, for we were to rise with the sun. We got 
up, breakfasted, and went down to the pier where two 
or three sturdy fellows were putting oars and rowlocks 
to rights, tumbling in huge stones for ballast, and care- 
fully stowing away a couple of guns and a basket of pro- 
visions. In about an hour we were fairly afloat ; the 
broad-backed fellows bent to their oars, and soon the 
house began to dwindle in the distance, the irregular 
winding shores to gather into compact masses, and the 
white cliffs, which we knew to be a couple of miles inland, 
to come strangely forward, and to overhang the house 
and the surrounding stripes of pasturage and clumps 
of birch-wood. On a fine morning there is not in the 
whole world a prettier sheet of water than Loch Eishart. 
Everything about it is wild, beautiful, and lonely. You 



90 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

drink a strange and unfamiliar air. You seem to be 
sailing out of the nineteenth century away bapk into 
the ninth. You are delighted, and there is no remem- 
bered delight with which you can compare the feeling. 
Over the Loch the CuchuUins rise crested with tumult 
of golden mists ; the shores are green behind ; and away 
out, towards the horizon, the Island of Rum — ten miles 
long at the least — shoots up from the flat sea like a 
pointed flame. It is a granite mass, you know, firm as 
the foundations of the world ; but as you gaze the magic 
of morning light makes it a glorious apparition, — a mere 
crimson film or shadow, so intangible in appearance you 
might almost suppose it to exist on sufferance, and that a 
breath could blow it away. Between Rum, fifteen miles 
out yonder, and the shores drawing together and darken- 
ing behind, with the white cliffs coming forward to stare 
after us, the sea is smooth, and flushed with more varied 
hues than ever lived on the changing opal, — dim azures, 
tender pinks, sleek emeralds. It is one sheet of mother- 
of-pearl. The hills are silent. The voice of man has 
not yet awoke on their heathery slopes. But the sea, 
literally clad with birds, is vociferous. They make plenty 
of noise at their work, these fellows. Darkly the cor- 
morant shoots across our track. The air is filled with 
a confused medley of sweet, melancholy, and querulous 
notes. As we proceed, a quick head ducks ; a troop of 
birds sinks suddenly to reappear far behind, or perhaps 
strips off the surface of the water, taking wing with a 
shrill cry of complaint. Occasionally, too, a porpoise, or 
" fish that hugest swims the ocean stream," heaves itself 
slowly out of the element, its wet sides flashing for a mo- 
ment in the sunlight, and then heeling lazily over, sinks 
with never a ripple. As we approached the Strathaird 



CAMASUNARY. 91 

coast, MTan sat high in the bow smoking, and covering 
with his gun every now and again some bird which came 
wheeling near, while the boatmen joked, and sang snatches 
of many-chorused songs. As the coast behind became 
gradually indistinct the coast in front grew bolder and 
bolder. You let your hand over the side of the boat 
and play listlessly with the water. You are lapped in a 
dream of other days. Your heart is chanting ancient 
verses and sagas. The northern sea-wind that filled the 
sails of the Vikings, and lifted their locks of tarnished 
gold, is playing in your hair. And when the keel grates 
on the pebbles at Kilraaree you are brought back to your 
proper century and self, — for by that sign you know that 
your voyage is over for the present, and that the way to 
Coruisk is across the steep hill in front. 

The boat was moored to a rude pier of stones, very 
similar to the one from which we started a couple of 
hours before, the guns were taken out, so was also the 
basket of provisions, and then the party, in long-drawn 
straggling procession, began to ascend the hill. The as- 
cent is steep and laborious. At times you wade through 
heather as high as your knee; at other times you find 
yourself in a bog, and must jump perforce from solid 
turf to turf. Progress is necessarily slow ; and the sun 
coming out strongly makes the brows ache with intolera- 
ble heat. The hill-top is reached at last, and you behold 
a magnificent sight. Beneath, a blue Loch flows in, on 
the margin of which stands the solitary farm-house of 
Camasunary. Out on the smooth sea sleep the islands 
of Rum and Canna, — Rum towered and mountainous, 
Canna flat and fertile. On the opposite side of the Loch, 
and beyond the solitary farm-house, a great hill breaks 
down into ocean with shelf and precipice. On the right 



92 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

Blaavin towers up into the mists of the morning, and 
at his base opens the desolate Glen Sligachan, to which 
Glencoe is Arcady. On the left, the eye travels along 
the whole southwest side of the island to the Sound of 
Sleat, to the hills of Knoydart, to the long point of 
Ardnamurchan, dim on the horizon. In the presence 
of all this we sink down in heather or on boulder, and 
wipe our heated foreheads; in the presence of all this 
M'lan hands round the flask, which is received with the 
liveliest gratitude. In a quarter of an hour we begin 
the descent, and in another quarter of an hour we are 
in the valley, and approaching the solitary farm-house. 
While about three hundred yards from the door a man 
issued therefrom and came towards us. It would have 
been difficult to divine from dress and appearance what 
order of man this was. He was evidently not a farmer, 
he was as evidently not a sportsman. His countenance 
was grave, his eye was bright, but you could make little 
out of either ; about him there was altogether a listless 
and a weary look. He seemed to me to have held too 
constant communion with the ridges of Blaavin and the 
desolations of Glen Sligachan. He was not a native of 
these parts, for he spoke with an English accent. He 
addressed us frankly, discussed the weather, told us the 
family was from home, and would be absent for some 
weeks yet; that he had seen us coming down the hill, 
and that, weary of rocks and sheep and sea-birds, he had 
come out to meet us. He then expressed a wish that we 
would oblige him with tobacco, that is, if we were in a 
position to spare any : stating that tobacco he generally 
procured from Broadford in rolls of a pound weight at a 
time ; that he had finished his last roll some ten days ago, 
and that till this period, from some unaccountable acci- 



THE TOBACCO-LESS MAN. 93 

dent, the roll, which was more than a week due, had 
never arrived. He feared it had got lost on the way, — 
he feared that the bearer had been tempted to smoke a 
pipe of it, and had been so charmed with its exquisite 
flavor that he had been unable to stir from the spot until 
he had smoked the entire roll out. He rather thought 
the bearer would be about the end of the roll now, and 
that, conscious of his atrocious conduct, he would never 
appear before him, but would fly the country, — go to 
America, or the Long I&land, or some other place where 
he could hold his guilt a secret. He had found the paper 
in which the last roll had been wrapt, had smoked that, 
and by a strong effort of imagination had contrived to 
extract from it considerable enjoyment. And so we made 
a contribution of bird's-eye to the tobacco-less man, for 
which he returned us politest thanks, and then strolled 
carelessly toward Glen Sligachan, — probably to look out 
for the messenger who had been so long on the way. 

"Who is our friend?" I asked of my companion. 
" He seems to talk in a rambling and fanciful manner." 

"I have never seen him before," said M'lan; "but 
I suspect he is one of those poor fellows who, from ex- 
travagance, or devotion to opium or strong waters, have 
made a mull of life, and who are sent here to end it in 
a quiet way. We have lots of them everywhere." 

" But," said I, " this seems the very worst place you 
could send such a man to, — it 's like sending a man into 
a wilderness with his remorse. It is only in the world, 
amid its noise, its ambitions, its responsibilities, tljiat men 
pick themselves up. Sea-birds, and misty mountains, and 
rain, and silence are the worst companions for such a 
man." 

"But then, you observe, sea-birds, and misty moun- 



94 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

tains, and rain, and silence hold their tongues, and take 
no notice of peccadilloes. Whatever may be their faults, 
they are not scandal-mongers. The doings in Skye do 
not cause blushes in London. The man dies here as 
silently as a crow ; it is only a black-bordered letter, 
addressed in a strange hand, that tells the news; and 
the black-bordered epistle can be thrown into the fire, 
— if the poor mother does not clutch at it and put it 
away, — and no one be a bit the wiser. It is sometimes 
to the advantage of his friends that a man should go into 
the other world by the loneliest and most sequestered 
path." 

So talking, we passed the farm-house, which, w^ith the 
exception of a red-headed damsel, who thrust her head 
out of a barn to stare, seemed utterly deserted, and bent 
our steps towards the shore of the Loch. Rough grass 
bordered a crescent of yellow sand, and on the rough 
grass a boat lay on its side, its pitchy seams blistering 
in the early sunshine. Of this boat we immediately took 
possession, dragged it down to the sea margin, got in 
our guns and provisions, tumbled in stones for ballast, 
procured oars, and pushed of. We had to round the 
great hill which, from the other side of the valley, we 
had seen breaking down into the sea ; and as we sailed 
and looked up, sheep were feeding on the green shelves, 
and every now and again a white smoke of sea-birds 
burst out clangorously from the black precipices. Slowly 
rounding the rocky buttress, which on stormy days the 
Atlantic fillips with its spray, another headland, darker 
still and drearier, drew slowly out to sea, and in a quarter 
of an hour we had passed from the main ocean into 
Loch Scavaig, and every pull of the oars revealed an- 
other ridge of the Cuchullins. Between these mountain 



LOCH CORUISK. 95 

ramparts we sailed, silent as a boatful of souls being con- 
veyed to some Norse hades. The Cuchullins were en- 
tirely visible now ; and the sight midway up Loch Scavaig 
is more impressive even than when you stand on the 
ruined shore of Loch Coruisk itself, — for the reason, 
perhaps, that, sailing midway, the mountain forms have 
a startling unexpectedness, while by the time you have 
pulled the whole way up, you have had time to master 
them to some extent, and familiarity has begun to dull 
the impression. In half an hour or so we disembarked 
on a rude platform of rock, and stepped out on the 
very spot on which, according to Sir Walter, the Bruce 
landed : 

" Where a wild stream with headlong shock 
Comes brawling down a bed of rock 
To mingle with the main." 

Picking your steps carefully over huge boulder and 
slippery stone, you come upon the most savage scene of 
desolation in Britain. Conceive a large lake filled with 
dark green water, girt with torn and shattered preci- 
pices ; the bases of which are strewn with ruin since 
an earthquake passed that way, and whose summits jag 
the sky with grisly splinter and peak. There is no 
motion here save the white vapor steaming from the 
abyss. The utter silence weighs like a burden upon 
you : you feel an intruder in the place. The hills seem 
to possess some secret ; to brood over some unutterable 
idea which you can never know. You cannot feel com- 
fortable at Loch Coruisk, and the discomfort arises in a 
great degree from the feeling that you are outside of 
everything, — that the thunder-splitten peaks have a life 
with which you cannot intermeddle. The dumb mon- 
sters sadden and perplex. Standing there, you are im- 



96 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

pressed with the idea that the mountains are silent 
because they are listening so intently. And the moun- 
tains are listening, else why do they echo our voices in 
such a wonderful way ? Shout here like an Achilles in 
the trenches. Listen ! The hill opposite takes up your 
words, and repeats them one after another, and curiously 
tries them over with the gravity of a raven. Immedi- 
ately after, you hear a multitude of skyey voices. 

" Methinks that there are spirits among the peaks." 

How strangely the clear strong tones are repeated by 
these granite precipices ! "Who could conceive that Horror 
had so sweet a voice ! Fainter and more musical they 
grow; fainter, sweeter, and more remote, until at last 
they come on your ear as if from the blank of the sky 
itself. MTan fired his gun, and it reverberated into a 
whole battle of Waterloo. We kept the hills busy with 
shouts and the firing of guns, and then MTan led us to 
a convenient place for lunching. As we trudge along 
something lifts itself off a rock, — 'tis an eagle. See 
how grandly the noble creature soars away. What sweep 
of wings ! What a lord of the air ! And if you cast 
up your eyes you will see his brother hanging like a 
speck beneath the sun. Under MTan's guidance, we 
reached the lunching-place, unpacked our basket, de- 
voured our bread and cold mutton, drank our bottled 
beer, and then lighted our pipes and smoked — in the 
strangest presence. Thereafter we bundled up our things, 
shouldered our guns, and marched in the track of ancient 
Earthquake towards our boat. Embarked once again, 
and sailing between the rocky portals of Loch Scavaig, 
I said, " I would not spend a day in that solitude for the 
world. I should go mad before evening." 



LOCK GORUISK. 97 

" Nonsense," said M'lan. " Sportsmen erect tents at 
Coruisk, and stay there by the week, — capital trout, too, 
are to be had in the Loch. The photographer, with his 
camera and chemicals, is almost always here, and the 
hills sit steadily for their portraits. It's as well you 
have seen Coruisk before its glory has departed. Your 
friend, the Landlord, talks of mooring a floating hotel at 
the head of Loch Scavaig full of sleeping apartments, 
the best of meats and drinks, and a brass band to per- 
form the newest operatic tunes on the summer evenings. 
At the clangor of the brass band the last eagle will take 
his flight for Harris." 

"The Tourist comes, and poetry flies before him as 
the red man flies before the white. His Tweeds will 
make the secret top of Sinai commonplace some day." 

In due time we reached Camasunary, and drew the 
boat up on the rough grass beyond the yellow sand. 
The house looked deserted as we passed. Our friend 
of the morning we saw seated on a rock, smoking, and 
gazing up Glen Sligachan, still looking out for the ap- 
pearance of his messenger from Broadford. At our 
shout he turned his head and waved his hand. We then 
climbed the hill and descended on Kilmaree. It was 
evening now, and as we pulled homewards across the 
rosy frith, I sat in the bow and watched the monstrous 
bulk of Blaavin, and the wild fringe of the Cuchullins 
bronzed by sunset. MTan steered, and the rowers, as 
they bent to their work, sang melancholy Gaelic songs. 
It was eleven at night by the time we got across, and the 
hills we had left were yet cutting, with dull purple, a 
pale yellow sky ; for in summer in these northern lati- 
tudes there is no proper night, only a mysterious twi- 
light of an hour and a sparkle of short-lived stars. 

5 Q 



98 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

Broadford Fair is a great event in the island. The 
little town lies on the margin of a curving bay, and un- 
der the shadow of a somewhat celebrated hill. On the 
crest of the hill is a cairn of stones, the burying-place of 
a Scandinavian woman, tradition informs me, whose wish 
it was to be laid high up there, that she might sleep right 
in the pathway of the Norway wind. In a green glen at its 
base stands the house of Corachatachin, breathing remi- 
niscences of Johnson and BosweU. Broadford is a post 
town, containing a lime-kiln, an inn, and perhaps three 
dozen houses in all. It is a place of great importance. 
If Portree is the London of Skye, Broadford is its Man- 
chester. The markets, held four times a year, take place 
on a patch of moorland, about a mile from the village. 
Not only are cattle sold, and cash exchanged for the 
same, but there the Skye farmer meets his relations, from 
the brother of his blood to his cousin forty times re- 
moved. To these meetings he is drawn, not only by 
his love of coin, but by his love of kindred, and — the 
Broadford Mail and the Portree Advertiser lying yet in 
the womb of time — by his love of gossip also. The 
market is the Skye-man's exchange, his family gathering, 
and his newspaper. From the deep sea of his solitude 
he comes up to breathe there, and, refreshed, sinks again. 
This fair at Broadford I resolved to see. The day be- 
fore the market the younger MTan had driven some 
forty stirks from the hill, and these, under the charge 
of John Kelly and his dog, started early in the afternoon 
that they might be present at the rendezvous about eight 
o'clock on the following morning, at which hour business 
generally began. I saw the picturesque troop go past, — 
wildly-beautiful brutes of all colors, — black, red, cream- 
colored, dun and tan ; all of a height, too, and so finely 



BROADFORD FAIR. 99 

bred that, but for difference of color, you could hardly 
distinguish the one from the other. What a lowing they 
made ! how they tossed their slavering muzzles ! how 
the breaths of each individual brute rose in a separate 
wreath ! how John Kelly shouted and objurgated, and 
how his dog scoured about ! At last the bello wings of 
the animals — the horde chanting after that fashion their 
obscure ^^Lochaher no more" — grew fainter and fainter 
up the glen, and finally on everything the wonted silence 
settled down. Next morning before sunrise M'lan and I 
followed in a dog-cart. We went along the glen down 
which Fellowes and I had come ; and in the meadows 
over which, on that occasion, we observed a troop of 
horses galloping through the mist of evening, I noticed, 
in the beamless light that preceded sunrise, hay-coops 
by the river-side, and an empty cart standing with its 
scarlet poles in the air. In a field nearer, a couple of 
male black-cocks with a loud whirr-rr were knocking 
their pugnacious heads together. Suddenly, above the 
hill in front the sun showed his radiant face, the chill 
atmosphere was pierced and brightened by his fires, the 
dewy birch-trees twinkled, and there were golden flicker- 
ings on the pools of the mountain stream along whose 
margin our road ascended. We passed the lake near 
which the peat-girls had laughed at us ; I took note of 
the very spot on which we had given Bare-legs a shilling, 
and related the whole story of our evening walk to my 
companion as we tooled along. 

A mile or two after we had passed the little fishing 
village with which I had formerly made acquaintance, 
we entered on a very dismal district of country. It was 
precisely to the eye what the croak of the raven is to the 
ear. It was an utter desolation, in which nature seemed 



100 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

deteriorated and at her worst. Winter could not possibly 
sadden the region ; no spring could quicken it into flow- 
ers. The hills wore but for ornament the white streak 
of the torrent ; the rocky soil clothed itself in heather to 
which the purple never came. Even man, the miracle- 
worker, who transforms everything he touches, who has 
rescued a fertile Holland from the waves, who has reared 
a marble Venice out of salt lagoon and marsh, was de- 
feated there. Labor was resultless, — it went no further 
than itself, — it was like a song without an echo. A 
turf-hut, with smoke issuing from the roof, and a patch 
of green round about, which reminded you of the smile 
of an ailing child, and which would probably ripen, so far 
as it was capable of ripening, by November, was all that 
man could wrest from nature. Gradually, however, as 
we proceeded, the aspect of the country changed, — it 
began to exhibit traces of cultivation ; and before long 
the red hill with the Norwegian woman's cairn atop rose 
before us, suggesting Broadford and the close of the jour- 
ney. In a little while the road was filled with cattle, 
driven forward with oath and shout. Every now and 
then a dog-cart came skirring along, and infinite was the 
confusion and dire the clangor of tongues when it plunged 
into a herd of sheep or skittish " three-year-olds." At 
the entrance to the fair the horses were taken out of the 
vehicles, and left, with a leathern thong fastened round 
their fore-legs, to limp about in search of breakfast. On 
either side of the road stood hordes of cattle, the wildest 
looking creatures, with fells of hair hanging over their 
eyes, and tossing horns of preposterous dimensions. On 
knolls, a little apart, women with white caps and wrapped 
in scarlet tartan plaids, sat beside a staked cow or pony, 
or perhaps a dozen sheep, patiently waiting the advances 



BROADFORD FAIR. 101 

of customers. Troops of horses neighed from stakes. 
Sheep were there, too, in restless throngs and masses, 
continually changing their shapes, scattering hither and 
thither like quicksilver, insane dogs and men flying along 
their eds^es. What a hubbub of sound! what lowing and 
neighing ! what bleating and barking ! Down in the 
hollow ground tents had been knocked up since dawn ; 
there potatoes were being cooked for drovers who had 
been travelling all night ; there also liquor could be had. 
To these places, I observed, contracting parties invariably 
repaired to solemnize a bargain. At last we reached the 
centre of the fair, and there stood John Kelly and his 
animals, a number of drovers moving around them and 
examining their points. By these men my friend was im- 
mediately surrounded, and much chaffering and bargain- 
making ensued, — visits to one of the aforesaid tents 
being made at intervals. It was a strange sight, that 
rude primeval traffic. John Kelly kept a sharp eye on 
his beasts. Lachlan Roy passed by, and low was his 
salute, and broad the smile on his good-natured counte- 
nance. I wandered about aimlessly for a time, and 
began to weary of the noise and tumult. MTan had 
told me that he would not be able to return before noon- 
day at earliest, and that all the while he would be en- 
gaged in bargain-making on his own account or on the 
account of others, and that during those hours I must 
amuse myself as best I could. As the novelty of the 
scene wore off, I began to fear that amusement would not 
be possible. Suddenly lifting my eyes out of the noise 
and confusion, there were the solitary mountain-tops and 
the clear mirror of Broadford Bay, the opposite coast 
sleeping green in it, with all its woods ; and lo ! the 
steamer from the south sliding in with her red funnel, 



102 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

and breaking the reflection with a track of foam, and dis- 
turbing the far-off morning silence with the thunders of 
her paddles. That sight solved my difficulty for me in 
a moment. I thought of Dr. Johnson and Boswell. " I 
shall go," I said, "and look at the ruins of the hou-e 
of Corachatachin, that lies in the green glen beneath 
the red hill, on the top of which the Norse woman is 
buried " ; and so saying, I went. 

To me, I confess, of all Hebridean associations. Dr. 
Johnson's visit is the pleasantest. How the Doctor ever 
got there is a matter for perpetual wonder. He liked 
books, good cheer, club life, the roar of Fleet Street, 
good talk, witty companions. One cannot imagine what 
attractions the rainy and surge-beaten islands possessed 
for the author of the "Vanity of Human Wishes." 
Wordsworth had not yet made fashionable a love for 
mountain and lake, and the shapes of changing cloud. 
Scott had not yet thrown the glamour of romance over 
the northern land, from the Sark to the Fitful Head. 
For fine scenery Johnson did not care one rush. When 
Boswell, in the fulness of his delight, pointed out "an 
immense mountain," the Doctor sincerely sneered, "an 
immense protuberance." He only cared for mountains 
in books, and even in books he did not care for them 
much. The rain-cloud, which would put Mr. Ruskin into 
ecstasies, could only suggest to the moralist the urgent 
necessity of an umbrella or a coach. Johnson loved his 
ease ; and a visit to the western island was in his day a 
serious matter, — about as serious as a visit to Kamt- 
schatka would be in ours. In his wanderings he was 
exposed to rain and wind, indifferent cookery, tempest- 
uous seas, and the conversation of persons who were 
neither witty nor learned; who were neither polished 



DR. JOHNSON IN SKYE. 103 

like Beauclerk, nor amusing like Goldsmith; and who 
laughed at epigram as Leviathan laughs at the shaking 
of the spear. I protest, when I think of the burly Doctor 
travelling in these regions, voluntarily resigning for a 
while all London delights, I admire him as a very hero. 
Boswell commemorates certain outbreaks of petulance 
and spleen ; but, on the whole, the great man seems to 
have been pleased with his adventure. Johnson found 
in his wanderings beautiful and high-bred women, well- 
mannered and cultivated men ; and it is more than prob- 
able that, if he were returning to the islands to-day, he 
would not find those admirable human qualities in greater 
abundance. What puzzles me most is the courage with 
which the philosopher encountered the sea. I have, in 
a considerable steamer, more than once shivered at the 
heavy surge breaking on Ardnamurchan ; and yet the 
Doctor passed the place in an open boat on his way to 
Mull, " lying down below in philosophical tranquillity, 
with a greyhound at his back to keep hira warm," while 
poor Bozzy remained in the rain above, clinging for dear 
life to a rope which a sailor gave him to hold, quieting 
his insurgent stomach as best he could with pious consid- 
erations, and sadly disturbed when a bigger wave than 
usual came shouldering onward, making the boat reel, 
with the objections which had been taken to a particu- 
lar providence, — objections which Dr. Hawkesworth had 
lately revived in his preface to " Voyages to the South 
Seas." Boswell's journal of the tour is delicious read- 
ing, — full of amusing egotism, unconsciously comic when 
he speaks for himself, and at the same time valuable, 
memorable, wonderfully vivid and dramatic in present- 
ment when the "Majestic Teacher of Moral and Re- 
ligious Wisdom" appears. What a singular capacity the 



104 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

man had to exhibit his hero as he lived, and at the same 
time to write himself complacently down an ass! It 
needed a certain versatility to accomplish the feat, one 
would think. In both ways the most eminent success 
attends him. And yet the absurdity of Bos well has all 
the effect of the nicest art. Johnson floats, a vast galleon, 
in the sea of Boswell's vanity ; and in contrast with the 
levity of the element in which it lives, its bulk and height 
appear all the more impressive. In Skye one is every 
now and again coming on the track of the distinguished 
travellers. They had been at Broadford, and that morn- 
ing I resolved I should go to Broadford also. 

Picking my steps carefully through the fair, — avoid- 
ing a flock of sheep on the one side, and a column of 
big-horned black cattle on the other, with some difficulty 
getting out of the way of an infuriated bull that came 
charging up the road, scattering everything right and 
left, a dozen blown drovers panting at its heels, — I 
soon got quit of the turmoil, and in half an hour passed 
the lime-kiln, the dozen houses, the ten shops, the inn, 
and the church, which constitute Broadford, and was 
pacing along the green glen which ran in the direction 
of the red hills. At last I came to a confused pile of 
stones, near which grew a solitary tree whose back the 
burden of the blast had bent, and which, although not a 
breath of wind was stirring, could no more regain an up- 
right position than can a round-shouldered laborer on 
a holiday. That confused pile of stones was all that 
remained of the old house of Corachatachin. I wandered 
around it more reverently than if it had been the cairn 
of a chief. It is haunted by no ghost. So far as my 
knowledge extends, no combat ever took place on , .e 
spot. But there Boswell, after Dr. Johnson had retired 



BROADFOED FAIR. 105 

to rest, in company with some young Highland bloods, — 
ah me! their very grandchildren must be dead or gray 
by this ! — brewed and quaffed five gigantic bowls of 
punch, with what wild talk we can fancy ; and the friend 
of the " Majestic Teacher of Moral and Religious Wis- 
dom" went to bed at five in the morning, and awoke 
with the headache of the reprobate. At noon the Doctor 
burst in with the exclamation, " What, drunk yet ? " 
"■ His tone of voice was not that of severe upbraiding," 
writes the penitent Bozzy, " so I was relieved a little." 
Did they fancy, these young men, as they sat that night 
and drank, that a hundred years after people would write 
of their doings ? — that the odor of their punch-bowls 
would outlive themselves? No man knows what part 
of his life will be remembered, what forgotten. A single 
tear, hurriedly brushed away mayhap, is the best thing 
we know of Xerxes. Picking one's steps around the 
ruin, one thought curiously of the flushed faces which 
death has cooled for so long. 

When I got back to the fair about noon, it was evident 
that a considerable stroke of business had been done. 
Hordes of bellowing cattle were being driven towards 
Broadford, and drovers were rushing about in a wonder- 
ful manner, armed with tar-pot and stick, and smearing 
their peculiar mark on the shaggy hides of their pur- 
chases. Rough-looking customers enough these fellows, 
yet they want not means. Some of them came here this 
morning with £ 500 in their pocket-books, and have spent 
every paper of it, and this day three months they will 
return with as large a sum. As I advanced, the booths 
ranged along the side of the road — empty when I passed 
th p[i several hours before — were plentifully furnished 
with confections, ribbons, and cheap jewelry, and around 

5* 



106 A SmiMER IN SKYE. 

these fair-headed and scarlet-plaided girls swarmed thickly 
as bees round summer flowers. 

The fair was running its full career of bargain-making, 
and consequent dram-drinking, rude flirtation, and meet- 
ing of friend with friend ; when up the middle of the 
road, hustling the passengers, terrifying the cattle, came 
three misguided young gentlemen, — medical students, I 
opined, engaged in botanical researches in these regions. 
But too plainly they had been dwellers in tents. One of 
them, gifted with a comic genius, — his companions were 
desperately solemn, — at one point of the road threw 
back the collar of his coat, after the fashion of Sambo 
when he brings down the applauses of the threepenny 
gallery, and executed a shuffle in front of a bewildered 
cow. Crummie backed and shied, bent on retreat. He, 
agile as a cork, bobbed up and down in her front, turn 
whither she would, with shouts and hideous grimaces, his 
companions standing by the while like mutes at a funeral. 
The feat accomplished, the trio staggered on, amid the 
scornful laughter and derision of the Gael. In a little 
while I encountered MTan, who had finished his business 
and was anxious to be gone. " We must harness the 
horse ourselves," he said, " for that rascal, John Kelly, 
has gone off somewhere. He has been in and out of 
tents ever since the cattle were sold, and I trust he won't 
come to grief He has a standing quarrel with the Kyle 
men, and may get a broken head." Elbowing our way 
through the crowd, we reached the dog-cart, got the horse 
harne.^sed, and were just about to start, when Lachlan 
Roy, his bonnet off, his countenance inflamed, came flying 
up. " Maister Alic, Maister Alic, is my face red yet ? " 
cried he, as he laid his hand on the vehicle. "Red 
enough, Lachlan ; you had better come with us, you may 



JOHN KELLY. 107 

lose your money if you don't." " Aw, Maister Alic dear, 
don't say my face is red, — it 's no red, Maister Alic, — 
it 's no vera red," pled the poor fellow. " Will you come 
with us, or will you not ? " said M'lan, as he gathered 
up the reins in his hand and seized the whip. At this 
moment three or four drovers issued from a tent in the 
neighborhood, and Lachlan heard his name shouted. " I 
maun go back for my bonnet. It wouldna do to ride 
with gentlemen without a bonnet " ; and he withdrew his 
hand. The drovers shouted again, and that second shout 
drew Lachlan towards it as the flame draws the moth. 
" His face will be red enough before evening," said 
M'lan, as we drove away. 

After we had driven about a quarter of an hour, and 
got entirely free of the fair, M'lan, shading his eyes from 
the sun with a curved palm, suddenly exclaimed, " There 's 
a red dog sitting by the roadside a little forward. It 
looks like John Kelly's." When we got up, the dog 
wagged its tail and whined, but retained its recumbent 
position. " Come out," said M'lan. " The dog is act- 
ing the part of a sentinel, and I dare say we shall find 
its master about." We got out accordingly, and soon 
found John stretched on the heather, snoring sterto- 
rously, his neck-tie unloosened, his bonnet gone, the sun 
shining full on the rocky countenance of him. " He 's 
as drunk as the Baltic," said M'lan ; " but we must get 
him out of this. Get up, John." But John made no 
response. We pinched, pulled, and thumped, but Joliu 
was immovable. I proposed that some water should be 
poured on his face, and did procure some from a wet 
ditch near, with which his countenance was splashed 
copiously, — not to its special adornment. The muddy 
water only produced a grunt of dissatisfaction. "We 



108 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

must take him on his fighting side," said M'lan, and 
then he knelt down and shouted in John's ear, " Here 's 
a man from Kyle says he's a better man than you." 
John grunted inarticulate defiance. " He says he '11 
fight you any day you like." " Tell him to strike me, 
then," said John, struggling with his stupor. " He says 
he '11 kick you." Under the insult John visibly writhed. 
" Kick him," whispered M'lan, " as hard as you can. 
It's our only chance." I kicked, and John was erect 
as a dart, striking blindly out, and when he became 
aware against whom he was making such hostile dem- 
onstrations his hands dropped, and he stood as if he had 
seen a ghost. " Catch him," said M'lan, " his rage has 
sobered him, he '11 be drunk next moment ; get him into 
the dog-cart at once." So the lucid moment was taken 
advantage of, he was hoisted into the back seat of the 
vehicle, his bonnet was procured, — he had fallen asleep 
upon it, — and placed on the wild head of him; we took 
our places, and away we started, with the red dog trot- 
ting behind. John rolled off once or twice, but there 
was no great harm done, and we easily got him in again. 
As we drove down the glen toward the house we set him 
down, and advised him to dip his wildly-tangled head in 
the stream before he went home. 

During the last few weeks I have had opportunity of 
witnessing something of life as it passes in the Skye wil- 
dernesses, and have been struck with its self-contained- 
ness, not less than with its remoteness. A Skye family 
has everything within itself. The bare mountains yield 
mutton, which possesses a flavor and delicacy unknown 
in the south. The copses swarm with rabbits ; and if 
a net is set over night at the Black Island, there is 
abundance of fish to breakfas^t. The farmer grows his 



THE ISLESMAN'S YEAR. 109 

own corn, barley, and potatoes, digs his own peats, makes 
his own candles ; he tans leather, spins cloth shaggy as 
a terrier's pile, and a hunchbacked artist in the place 
transforms the raw materials into boots or shepherd gar- 
ments. Twice every year a huge hamper arrives from 
Glasgow, stuffed with all the little luxuries of house- 
keeping, — tea, sugar, coffee, and the like. At more 
frequent intervals comes a ten-gallon cask from Green- 
ock, -svhose contents can cunningly draw the icy fangs of 
a northeaster, or take the chill out of the clammy mists. 

" What want they that a kiug should have? " 

And once a week the Inverness Courier, like a window 
suddenly opened on the roaring sea, brings a murmur of 
the outer world, its politics, its business, its crimes, its 
literature, its whole multitudinous and unsleeping life, 
making the stillness yet more still. To the Islesman 
the dial face of the year is not artificially divided, as in 
cities, by parliamentary session and recess, college terms, 
vacations short and long, by the rising and sitting of 
courts of justice ; nor yet, as in more fortunate soils, by 
imperceptible gradations of colored light, — the green 
flowery year deepening into the sunset of the October 
hollyhock ; the slow reddening of burdened orchards ; 
the slow yellowing of wheaten plains. Not by any of 
these, but by the higher and more affecting element of 
animal life, with its passions and instincts, its gladness 
and suffering; existence like our own, although in a 
lower key, and untouched by solemn issues; the same 
music and wail, although struck on rude and uncertain 
chords. To the Islesman the year rises into interest 
when the hills, yet wet with melted snows, are pathetic 
with newly-yeaned lambs, and it completes itself through 



110 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

the successive steps of weaning, fleecing, sorting, fatten- 
ing, sale, final departure, and cash in pocket. The 
shepherd life is more interesting than the agricultural, 
inasmuch as it deals with a higher order of being; for 
I suppose — apart from considerations of profit — a 
couchant ewe, with her young one at her side, or a ram, 
with " wreathed horns superb," cropping the herbage, is 
a more pleasing object to the aesthetic sense than a field 
of mangel-wurzel, flourishing ever so gloriously. The 
shepherd inhabits a mountain country, lives more com- 
pletely in the open air, and is acquainted with all the 
phenomena of storm and calm, — the thunder-smoke coil- 
ing in the wind, the hawk hanging stationary in the 
breathless blue. He knows the faces of the hills, rec- 
ognizes the voices of the torrents as if they were chil- 
dren of his own, can unknit their intricate melody as 
he lies with his dog beside him on the warm slope at 
noon, separating tone from tone, and giving this to rude 
crag, that to pebbly bottom. From long intercourse, 
every member of his flock wears to his eye its special 
individuality, and he recognizes the countenance of a 
"wether" as he would the countenance of a human 
acquaintance. Sheep-farming is a picturesque occupa- 
tion : and I think a multitude of sheep descending a hill- 
side, now outspreading in bleating leisure, now huddling 
together in the haste of fear, — the dogs, urged more by 
sagacity than by the shepherd's voice, flying along the 
edges, turning, guiding, changing the shape of the mass, 
— one of the prettiest sights in the world. 

The milking of the cows is worth going a considerable 
distance to see. The cows browse about on the hills all 
day, and at sunset they are driven into a sort of green 
oasis, amid the surrounding birch-wood. The rampart 



THE FOLD. Ill 

of rock above is dressed in evening colors, the grass is 
golden green ; everything — animals, herds, and milk- 
maids — are throwing long shadows. All about, the cows 
stand lowing in picturesque groups. The milkmaid ap- 
proaches one, caresses it for a moment, draws in her 
stool, and in an instant the rich milk is hissing in the 
pail. All at once there arises a tremendous noise, and 
pushing through the clumps of birch-w^ood down towards 
a shallow rivulet which skirts the oasis, breaks a troop of 
wild-looking calves, attended by a troop of wilder-looking 
urchins armed with sticks and the branches of trees. The 
cows low more than ever, and turn their wistful eyes ; the 
bellowing calves are halted on the farther side of the 
rivulet, and the urchins stand in the water to keep them 
back. An ardent calf, however, breaks through the 
cordon of urchins, tumbles one into the streamlet, climbs 
the bank amid much Gaelic exclamation, and ambles 
awkwardly toward his dam. Reaching her, he makes a 
wild push at the swollen udder, drinks, his tail shaking 
with delight ; while she, turning her head round, licks his 
shaggy hide with fond maternal tongue. In about five 
minutes he is forced to desist, and with a branch-bearing 
urchin on each side of him, is marched across the rivulet 
again. One by one the calves are allowed to cross, each 
makes the same wild push at the udder, each drinks, the 
tail ecstatically quivering ; and on each the dam fixes 
her great patient eyes, and turning licks the hide, whether 
it be red, black, brindled, dun, or cream-colored. When 
the calves have been across the rivulet and back again, 
and the cows are being driven away to their accustomed 
pasturage, a milkmaid approaches with her pail, and 
holding it up, gives you to drink, as long ago Rebecca 
gave to drink the servant of Abraham. By this time the 



112 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

grass is no longer golden green ; the red light has gone off 
the rocky ramparts, and the summer twilight is growing 
in the hoUowSj-and in amongst the clumps of birch- wood. 
Afar you hear the noise of retiring calves and urchins. 
The milkmaids start off in long procession with their 
pails and stools. A rabbit starts out from a bush at your 
feet, and scurries away down the dim field. And when, 
following, you descend the hillside toward the bridge, 
you see the solemn purple of the Cuchullins cutting the 
yellow pallor of evening sky, — perhaps with a feeling of 
deeper satisfaction you notice that a light is burning in 
the porch of Mr. M'lan's house. "The fold," as the 
milking of the cows is called, is pretty enough ; but the 
most affecting incident of shepherd life is the weaning of 
the lambs, — affecting, because it reveals passions in the 
fleecy flocks, the manifestation of which we are accus- 
tomed to consider ornamental in ourselves. From all the 
hills men and dogs drive the flocks down into a fold, or 
fank, as it is called here, consisting of several chambers 
or compartments. Into these compartments the sheep are 
huddled, and then the separation takes place. The ewes 
are returned to the mountains, the lambs are driven 
away to some spot where the pasture is rich, and where 
they are watched day and night. Midnight comes with 
dews and stars ; the lambs are peacefully couched. Sud- 
denly they are restless, ill at ease, goaded by some sore 
unknown want, and seem disposed to scatter wildly in 
every direction ; but the shepherds are wary, the dogs 
swift and sure, and after a little while the perturbation 
is allayed, and they are quiet again. Walk up now to 
the fank. The full moon is riding between the hills, 
filling the glens with lustres and floating mysterious 
glooms. Listen ! you hear it on every side of you, till it 



MR. M'lAN. 113 

dies away in the silence of distance, — the fleecy Rachel 
weeping for her children ! The turf walls of the fank 
are in shadow, but something seems to be moving there. 
As you approach, it disappears with a quick short bleat, 
and a hurry of tiny hoofs. Wonderful mystery of in- 
stinct! Affection all the more affecting that it is so 
wrapt in darkness, hardly knowing its own meaning. 
For nights and nights the creatures will be found haunt- 
ing about those turfen walls seeking the young that have 
been taken away. 

But my chief delight here is my friend, Mr. MTan. I 
know that I described him when I first saw him in his own 
house ; but knowing him better now, as a matter of course 
I can describe him better. He would strike one with a 
sense of strangeness in a city, and among men of the pres- 
ent generation ; but here he creates no surprise, — he is 
a natural product of the region, like the red heather, or 
the bed of the dried torrent. He is master of legendary 
lore. He knows the history of every considerable family 
in the island ; he circulates like sap through every 
genealogical tree ; he is an enthusiast in Gaelic poetry, 
and is fond of reciting compositions of native bard^, his 
eyes lighted up, and his tongue moving glibly over the 
rugged clots of consonants. He has a servant cunning 
upon the pipes ; and, dwelling there this summer, I heard 
Ronald wandering near the house, solacing himself 
with their music ; now a plaintive love-song, now a 
coronach for chieftain borne to his grave, now a battle 
march, the notes of which, melancholy and monotonous 
at first, would soar into a higher strain, and then hurry 
and madden as if beating time to the footsteps of the 
charging clan. I am the fool of association ; and the 
tree under which a king has rested, the stone on which a 



114 A SUMMER IN SKTE. 

banner was planted on the morning of some victorious 
or disastrous day, the house in which some great man 
first saw the light, are to me the sacredest things. This 
sHght, gray, keen-eyed man — the scabbard sorely frayed 
now, the blade sharp and bright as ever — gives me a 
thrill like an old coin with its half-obliterated effigy, a 
Druid stone on a moor, a stain of blood on the floor of 
a palace. He stands before me a living figure, and his- 
tory groups itself behind by way of background. He 
sits at the same board with me, and yet he lifted Moore 
at Corunna, and saw the gallant dying eyes flash up with 
their last pleasure when the Highlanders charged past. 
He lay down to sleep in the light of Wellington's watch* 
fires in the gorges of the Pyrenees ; around him roared 
the death-thunders of Waterloo. There is a certain 
awfulness about very old men ; they are amongst us, 
but not of us. They crop out of the living soil and 
herbage of to-day, like rocky strata bearing marks of the 
glacier or the wave. Their roots strike deeper than 
ours, and they draw sustenance from an earlier layer of 
soil. They are lonely amongst the young ; they cannot 
form new friendships, and are willing to be gone. They 
feel the " sublime attractions of the grave " ; for the soil 
of churchyards once flashed kind eyes on them, heard 
with them the chimes at midnight, sang and clashed the 
brimming goblet with them ; and the present Tom and 
Harry are as nothing to the Tom and Harry that swag- 
gered about and toasted the reigning belles seventy years 
ago. We are accustomed to lament the shortness of 
life ; but it is wonderful how long it is notwithstanding. 
Often a single life, like a summer twilight, connects two 
historic days. Count back four lives, and King Charles 
is kneeling on the scaffold at Whitehall. To hear MTan 



MR. M'lAN. 115 

speak, one could not help thinking in this way. In a 
short run across the mainland with him this summer, 
we reached Ciilloden Moor. The old gentleman with a 
mournful air — for he is a great Jacobite, and wears the 
Prince's hair in a ring — pointed out the burial-grounds 
of the clans. Struck with his manner, I inquired how he 
came to know their red resting-places. As if hurt, he 
drew himself up, laid his hand on my shoulder, saying, 
" Those who put them in told me." Heavens, how a 
century and odd years collapsed, and the bloody field — 
the battle-smoke not yet cleared away, and where Cum- 
berland's artillery told the clansmen sleeping in thickest 
swathes — unrolled itself from the horizon down to my 
very feet ! For a whole evening he will sit and speak 
of his London life ; and I cannot help contrasting the 
young officer, who trod Bond Street with powder in his 
hair at the end of last century, with the old man living 
in the shadow of Blaavin now. 

Dwellers in cities have occasionally seen a house that 
has the reputation of being haunted, and heard a ghost 
story told. City people laugh when these stories are 
told, even although the blood should run chill the while. 
But in Skye one is steeped in a ghostly atmosphere ; men 
walk about here gifted with the second sight. There has 
been something weird and uncanny about the island for 
some centuries. Douglas, on the morning of Otterbourne, 
according to the ballad, was shaken with superstitious 
fears : — 

" But I hae dreamed a dreary dream, — 

Beyond the Isle of Skye, 
I saw a dead man win a fight, 

And I think that man was I." 

Then the whole country is full of stories of the Norwe- 



116 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

gian times and earlier, — stories it might be worth Dr. 
Dasent's while to take note of, should he ever visit the 
Hebrides. Skye, more particularly, is haunted of le- 
gends. It is as full of noises as Prospero's Island. One 
such legend, concerning Ossian and his poems, struck me 
a good deal. Near Mr. M'lan's place is a ruined castle, 
a mere hollow shell of a building, Dunscaich by name, 
built in Fingalian days by the chieftain CuchuUin, and 
so called by him in honor of his wife. The ruin stands 
on a rocky headland bearded by gray-green lichens. It 
is quite desolate, and but seldom visited. The only sounds 
heard there are the whistle of the salt breeze, the bleat 
of a strayed sheep, the cry of wheeling sea-birds. MTan 
and myself sat one summer day on the ruined stair. 
Loch Eishart lay calm and bright beneath, the blue 
expanse broken only by a creeping sail. Across the 
Loch rose the great red hill, in the shadow of which 
Boswell got drunk, on the top of which is perched the 
Scandinavian woman's cairn ; and out of the bare heaven, 
down on the crests of the Cuchullins, flowed a great white 
vapor which gathered in the sunlight in mighty fleece 
on fleece. The old gentleman was the narrator, and the 
legend goes as follows: — The castle was built by Cuchul- 
lin and his Fingalians in a single night. The chieftain 
had many retainers, was a great hunter, and terrible in 
war. With his own arm he broke battalions ; and every 
night at feast the minstrel Ossian sang his exploits- 
Ossian, on one occasion, wandering among the hills, was 
attracted by strains of music which seemed to issue from 
a round green knoll on which the sun shone pleasantly. 
He sat down to listen, and was lulled asleep by the 
melody. He had no sooner fallen asleep than the knoll 
opened, and he beheld the under-world of the fairies. 



SKYE STORIES. 117 

That afternoon and night he spent in revelry, and in 
the morning he was allowed to return. Again the music 
sounded, again the senses of the minstrel were steeped in 
forgetfuhiess ; and on the sunny knoll he awoke, a gray- 
haired man, for into one short afternoon and evening had 
been crowded a hundred of our human years. In his 
absence the world had been entirely changed, the Fingal- 
ians were extinct, and the dwarfish race whom we now 
call men were possessors of the country. Longing for 
companionship, and weary of singing his songs to the 
earless rocks and sea waves, Ossian married the daugh- 
ter of a shepherd, and in process of time a little girl was 
born to him. Years passed on, his wife died, and his 
daughter, woman grown now, married a pious man — for 
the people were Christianized by this time — called, from 
his love of psalmody, Peter of the Psalms. Ossian, blind 
with age, and bearded like the cliff yonder, went to reside 
with his daughter and her husband. Peter was engaged 
all day in hunting, and when he came home at evening 
and the lamp was lighted, Ossian, sitting in a warm cor- 
ner, was wont to recite the wonderful songs of his youth, 
and to celebrate the mighty battles and hunting feats of 
the big-boned Fingalians, — and in these songs Cuchullin 
stood with his terrible spear upraised, and his beautiful 
wife sat amid her maids plying the distaff. To these 
songs Peter of the Psalms gave attentive ear, and, being 
something of a penman, carefully inscribed them in a 
book. One day Peter had been more than usually suc- 
cessful in the chase, and brought home on his shoulders 
the carcass of a huge stag. Of this stag a leg was dressed 
for supper, and when it was picked bare, Peter triumph- 
antly inquired of Ossian, " In the Fingalian days you 
sing about, killed you ever a stag so large as this one ? " 



118 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

Ossian balanced the bone in his hand, then sniffing intense 
disdain, replied, " This bone, big as you think it, could be 
dropped into the hollow of a Fingalian blackbird's leg." 
Peter of the Psalms, enraged at what he considered an 
unconscionable crammer on the part of his father-in-law, 
started up, swearing that he would not peril his soul by 
preserving any more of his lying songs, and flung the 
volume in the fire : but his wife darted forward and 
snatched it up, half-charred, from the embers. At this 
conduct on the part of Peter, Ossian groaned in spirit 
and wished to die, that he might be saved from the envies 
and stupidities of the little people whose minds were as 
stunted as their bodies. When he went to bed he im- 
plored his ancient gods — for he was a sad heathen, and 
considered psalm-singing no better than the howling of 
dogs — to resuscitate, if but for one hour, the hounds, the 
stags, and the blackbirds of his youth, that he might con- 
found and astonish the unbelieving Peter. His prayers 
done, he fell on slumber, and just before dawn a weight 
upon his breast awoke him. He put forth his hands and 
stroked a shaggy hide. Ossian's prayers were answered, 
for there, upon his breast, in the dark of the morning, was 
couched his favorite hound. He spoke to it, called it by 
name, and the faithful creature whimpered and licked his 
hands and face. Swiftly he got up and called his little 
grandson, and they went out with the hound. When 
they came to the top of a little eminence, Ossian said 
to the child, " Put your fingers in your ears, little one, 
else I will make you deaf for life." The boy put his 
fingers in his ears, and then Ossian whistled so loud that 
the whole sky rang as if it had been the roof of a cave. 
He then asked the child if he saw anything. " 0, such 
large deer 1 " said the child. " But a small herd by the 



SKYE STORIES. 119 

trampling of it," said Ossian ; " we will let that herd pass." 
Presently the child called out, " O, such large deer ! " 
Ossian bent his ear to the ground to catch the sound of 
their coming, and then, as if satisfied, he let slip the 
hound, who speedily overtook and tore down seven of 
the fattest. When the animals were skinned and dressed, 
Ossian groped his way toward a large lake, in the centre 
of which grew a wonderful bunch of rushes. He waded 
into the lake, tore up the rushes, and brought to light the 
great Fingalian kettle, which had lain there for more 
than a century. Returning to his quarry, a fire was kin- 
dled, the kettle containing the seven carcasses was placed 
thereupon ; and soon a most savory smell, like a general 
letter of invitation, flew abroad on all the winds. When 
the animals were stewed after the approved fashion of 
his ancestors, Ossian sat down to his repast. Now as, 
since his sojourn with the fairies, and the extermination 
of the Fingalians, he had never enjoyed a suflficient meal, 
it was his custom to gather up the superfluous folds of his 
stomach by wooden splints, nine in number. As he now 
fed and expanded, splint after splint was thrown away, 
as button after button burst on the jacket of the feasting 
boy in the story-book, till at last, when the kettle was 
emptied, he lay down on the grass perfectly satisfied, and 
silent as the ocean when the tide is full. Recovering 
himself, he gathered all the bones together, — set fire to 
them, and the smoke which ascended made the roof of 
the firmament as black as the roof of the turf-hut at 
home. " Little one," then said Ossian, " go up to the 
knoll and tell me if you see anything." " A great bird 
is flying hither," said the child ; and immediately the 
great Fingalian blackbird alighted at the feet of Ossian, 
who at once caueht and tlirottled it The fowl was car- 



120 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

ried home, and was in the evening dressed for supper. 
After it was devoured, Ossian called for the stag's thigh- 
bone which had been the original cause of quarrel, and 
before the face of the astonished and convicted Peter of 
the Psalms, dropped it into the hollow of the blackbird's 
leg. Ossian died on the night of his triumph, and the 
only record of his songs is the volume which Peter in 
his rage threw into the fire, and from which, when half- 
consumed, it was rescued by his wife. 

" But," said I, when the old gentleman had finished 
his story, "how came it that the big-boned Fingalians 
were extirpated during the hundred years that Ossian 
was asleep amongst the fairies ? " 

" Well," said the old gentleman, " a woman was the 
cause of that, just as a woman is the cause of most of 
the other misfortunes that happen in the world. I told 
you that this castle was built by Cuchullin, and that he 
and his wife lived in it. Now tallest, bravest, strongest, 
handsomest of all Cuchullin's warriors was Diarmid, and 
many a time his sword was red with the blood of the 
little people who came flocking over here from Ireland 
in their wicker and skin-covered boats. Now, when 
Diarmid took off his helmet at feast, there was a fairy 
mole right in the centre of his forehead, just above the 
eyes and between his curling locks ; and on this beauty 
spot no woman could look without becoming enamored 
of him. One night Cuchullin gave a feast in the castle ; 
the great warrior was invited ; and while he sat at meat 
with his helmet off, Cuchullin's wife saw the star-like 
mole in the centre of his forehead, and incontinently fell 
in love with him. Cuchullin discovered his wife's passion, 
and began secretly to compass the death of Diarmid. 
He could not slay him openly for fear of his tribe ; so 



SKYE STORIES. 121 

he consulted an ancient witch who lived over the hill 
yonder. Long they consulted, and at last they matured 
their plans. Now, the Fingalians had a wonderful boar 
which browsed in Gasken, — the green glen which you 
know leading down to my house, — and on the back of 
this boar there was a poisoned bristle, which, if it pierced 
the hand of any man, the man would certainly die. No 
one knew the secret of the bristle save the witch, and 
the witch told it to Cuchullin. One day, therefore, when 
the chief and his warriors were sitting on the rocks here- 
about, the conversation was cunningly led to the boar. 
Cuchullin wagered the magic whistle which was slung 
around his neck, that the brute was so many handbreadths 
from the snout to the tip of the tail. Diarmid wagered 
the shield that he was polishing — the shield which was 
his mirror in peace, by the aid of which he dressed his 
curling locks, and with which he was wont to dazzle the 
eyes of his enemies on a battle day — that it was so 
many handbreadths less. The warriors heard the dis- 
pute and were divided in opinion ; some agreeing with 
Cuchullin, others agreeing with Diarmid. At last it 
was arranged that Diarmid should go and measure the 
boar; so' he and a number of the warriors went. In a 
short time they came back laughing and saying that 
Diarmid had won his wager, that the length of the boar 
was so many handbreadths, neither more nor less. Cuchul- 
lin bit his white lips when he saw them coming ; and 
then he remembered that he had asked them to measure 
the boar from the snout to the tail, being the way the pile 
lay ; whereas, in order to carry out his design, he ought 
to have asked them to measure the boar against the pile. 
When, therefore, he was told that he had lost his wager, 
he flew into a great rage, maintained that they were all 
6 



122 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

conspiring to deceive him, that the handbreadths he had 
wagered were the breadths of Diarmid's own hands, and 
declared that he would not be satisfied until Diarmid 
would return and measure the boar from the tip of tail 
to the snout. Diarmid and the rest went away ; and 
when he reached the boar he began measuring it from 
the tail onward, his friends standing by to see that he was 
measuring properly, and counting every handbreadth. 
He had measured half-way up the spine, when the 
poisoned bristle ran into his hand. ' Ah,' he said, and 
turned pale as if a spear had been driven into his heart. 
To support himself, he caught two of his friends round 
the neck, and in their arms he died. Then the weeping 
warriors raised the beautiful corpse on their shoulders 
and carried it to the castle, and laid it down near the 
drawbridge. Cuchullin then came out, and when he saw 
his best warrior dead he laughed as if a piece of great 
good fortune had befallen him, and directed that the 
corpse should be carried into his wife's chamber. 

" But Cuchullin had cause to repent soon after. The 
little black-haired people came swarming over from Ire- 
land in their boats by hundreds and thousands, but Diar- 
mid was not there to oppose them with his spear and 
shield. Every week a battle was fought, and the little 
people began to prevail ; and by the time that Ossian 
made his escape from the fairies, every Fingalian, with 
the exception of two, slept in their big graves, — and at 
times the peat-digger comes upon their mighty bones 
when he is digging in the morasses." 

" And the two exceptions ? " said I. 

"Why, that's another story," said MTan, "and I 
getting tired of legends. — Well, if you will have it, the 
two last Fingalians made their escape from Skye, carry- 



SKYE STORIES. 123 

ing with tbem the magic whistle which Cuchullin wore 
around his neck, and took up their abode in a cave in 
Ross-shire. Hundreds of years after a man went into 
that cave, and in the half twilight of the place saw the 
whistle on the floor, and lifted it up. He saw it was of 
the strangest workmanship, and putting it to his lips he 
blew it. He had never heard a whistle sound do loudly 
and yet so sweetly. He blew it a second time, and then 
he heard a voice, * Well done, little man ; blow the 
whistle a third time ' ; and turning to the place from 
which the sound proceeded, he saw a great rock like 
a man leaning on his elbow and looking up at him. 
* Blow it the third time, little man, and relieve us from 
our bondage ! ' What between the voice, and the strange 
human-looking rock, the man got so terrified that he 
dropped the whistle on the floor of the cave, where it 
was smashed into a thousand pieces, and ran out into 
the daylight. He told his story; and when the cave 
was again visited, neither he nor his companions could 
see any trace of the broken whistle on the floor, nor 
could they discover any rock which resembled a weary 
man leaning on his elbow and looking up." 



124 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 



A BASKET OF FRAGMENTS. 

THE month of August is to the year what Sunday- 
is to the week. During that month a section of 
the working world rests. Bradshaw is consulted, port- 
manteaus are packed, knapsacks are strapped on, steam- 
boats and railway carriages are crammed, and from Cal- 
ais to Venice the tourist saunters and looks about him. 
It is absolutely necessary that the Briton should have 
each year one month's cessation from accustomed labor. 
He works hard, puts money in his purse, and it is his 
whim, when August comes, by way of recreation, to stalk 
deer on Highland corries, to kill salmon in Norwegian 
fiords, to stand on the summit of Mont Blanc, and to 
perambulate the pavements of Madrid, Naples, and St. 
Petersburg. To rush over the world during vacation is 
a thing on which the respectable Briton sets his heart. 
To remain at home is to lose caste and self-respect. 
People do not care one rush for the Rhine ; but that 
sacred stream they must behold each year, or die. Of 
all the deities, Fashion has the most zealous votaries. 
No one can boast a more extensive martyrology. Her 
worshippers are terribly sincere, and many a secret pen- 
ance do they undergo, and many a flagellation do they 
inflict upon themselves in private. 

Early in the month in which English tourists descend 
on the Continent in a shower of gold, it has been my 
custom, for several years back, to seek refuge in the 
Hebrides. I love Loch Snizort better than the Mediter- 



VACATION IN SKYE. 125 

ranean, and consider Duntulme more impressive than 
the Drachenfels. I have never seen the Alps, but the 
CuchuUins content me. Haco interests me more than 
Charlemagne. I confess to a strong affection for those 
remote regions. Jaded and nervous with eleven months' 
labor or disappointment, there will a man find the medi- 
cine of silence and repose. Pleasant, after poring over 
books, to watch the cormorant at early morning flying 
with outstretched neck over the bright frith ; pleasant^ 
lying in some sunny hollow at noon, to hear the sheep 
bleating above ; pleasant at evening to listen to wild 
stories of the isles told by the peat fire ; and pleasantest 
of all, lying awake at midnight, to catch, muffled by dis- 
tance, the thunder of the northern sea, and to think of 
all the ears the sound has filled. In Skye one is free 
of one's century ; the present wheels away into silence 
and remoteness ; you see the ranges of brown shields, 
and hear the shoutings of the Bare Sarks. 

The benefit to be derived from vacation is a mental 
benefit mainly. A man does not require change of air 
so much as change of scene. It is well that he should 
for a space breathe another mental atmosphere ; it is 
better that he should get release from the familiar cares 
that, like swallows, build and bring forth under the eaves 
of his mind, and which are continually jerking and twit- 
tering about there. New air for the lungs, new objects 
for the eye, new ideas for the brain, — these a vacation 
should always bring a man ; and these are to be found in 
Skye rather than in places more remote. In Skye the 
Londoner is visited with a stranger sense of foreignness 
than in Holland or in Italy. The island has not yet, to 
any considerable extent, been overrun by the tourist. To 
visit Skye is to make a progress into " the dark back- 



126 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

ward and abysm of time." You turn your back on the 
present, and walk into antiquity. You see everything in 
the light of Ossian as in the light of a mournful sunset. 
"With a Norse murmur the blue Lochs come running in. 
The Canongate of Edinburgh is Scottish history in stone 
and lime, but in Skye you stumble on matters older still. 
Everything about the traveller is remote and strange. 
You hear a foreign language ; you are surrounded by 
Macleods, Macdonalds, and Nicolsons; you come on gray 
stones standing upright on the moor, marking the site of 
a battle or the burial-place of a chief. You listen to tra- 
ditions of ancient skirmishes ; you sit on ruins of ancient 
date, in which Ossian might have sung. The Loch yon- 
der was darkened by the banner of King Haco. Prince 
Charles wandered over this heath or slept in that cave. 
The country is thinly peopled, and its solitude is felt as 
a burden. The precipices of the Storr lower grandly 
over the sea ; the eagle has yet its eyrie on the ledges of 
the Cuchullins. The sound of the sea is continually in 
your ears, the silent armies of mists and vapors perpet- 
ually deploy, the wind is gusty on the moor, and ever 
and anon the jags of the hills are obscured by swirls of 
fiercely-blown rain. And, more than all, the island is 
pervaded by a subtle spiritual atmosphere. It is as 
strange to the mind as it is to the eye. Old songs and 
traditions are the spiritual analogues of old castles and 
burying-places ; and old songs and traditions you have in 
abundance. There is a smell of the sea in the material 
air, and there is a ghostly something in the air of the 
imagination. There are prophesying voices amongst the 
hills of an evening. The raven that flits across your 
path is a weird thing, — mayhap by the spell of some 
strong enchanter a human soul is balefully imprisoned in 



THE NORSE ELEMENT IN SKYE. 127 

the hearse-like carcass. You hear the stream and the 
voice of the kelpie in it. You breathe again the air of 
old story-books ; but they are northern, not eastern ones. 
To what better place, then, can the tired man go ? There 
he will find refreshment and repose. There the wind 
blows out on him from another century. The Sahara 
itself is not a greater contrast from the London street 
than is the Skye wilderness. 

Tne chain of islands on the western coast of Scotland, 
extending from Bute in the throat of the Clyde, beloved 
of invalids, onward to St. Kilda, looking through a cloud 
of gannets toward the polar night, was originally an ap- 
panage of the crown of Norway. In the dawn of his- 
tory there is a noise of Norsemen around the islands, as 
there is to-day a noise of sea-birds. There fought, as 
old sagas tell, Anund, the stanchest warrior that ever did 
battle on wooden leg. Wood-foot he was called by his 
followers. When he was fighting his hardest, his men 
used to shove toward him a block of wood, and resting 
his maimed limb on that, he laid about him right man- 
fully. From the islands also sailed Helgi, half pagan, 
half Christian. Helgi was much mixed in his faith ; he 
was a good Christian in time of peace, but the aid of 
Thor he was always certain to invoke when he sailed 
on some dangerous expedition, or when he entered into 
battle. Old Norwegian castles, perched on the bold Skye 
headlands, yet moulder in hearing of the surge. The 
sea-rovers come no longer in their dark galleys, but hill 
and dale wear ancient names that sigh to the Norway 
pine. The inhabitant of Mull or Skye perusing the 
"Burnt Njal," is struck most of all by the names of 
localities, because they are almost identical with the 
names of localities in his own neighborhood. The Skye 



128 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

headlands of Trotternish, Greshornish, and Vaternish 
look northward to Norway headlands that wear the same 
or similar names. Professor Munch, of Christiania, states 
that the names of many of the islands — Arran, Gigha, 
Mull, Tyree, Skye, Raasay, Lewes, and others — are in 
their original form Norwegian, and not Gaelic. The 
Hebrides have received a Norse baptism. Situated as 
these islands are between Norway and Scotland, the 
Norseman found them convenient stepping-stones, or 
resting-places, on his way to the richer southern lands. 
There he erected temporary strongholds, and founded 
settlements. Doubtless, in course of time, the son of 
the Norseman looked on the daughter of the Celt, and 
saw that she was fair, and a mixed race was the result of 
alliances. To this day in the islands the Norse element 
is distinctly visible, not only in old castles, the names of 
places, but in the faces and entire mental build of the 
people. Claims of pure Scandinavian descent are put 
forward by many of the old families. "Wandering up 
and down the islands you encounter faces that possess no 
Celtic characteristics, which carry the imagination to 

"Noroway ower the faem" ; 

people with cool calm blue eyes, and hair yellow as the 
dawn ; who are resolute and persistent, slow in pulse and 
speech ; and who differ from the explosive Celtic element 
surrounding them as the iron headland differs from the 
fierce surge that washes it, or a block of marble from the 
heated palm pressed against it. The Hebrideans are a 
mixed race ; in them the Norseman and the Celt are 
combined, and here and there is a dash of Spanish blood 
which makes brown the cheek and darkens the eye. 
This southern admixture may have come about through 



HIGHLAND CHARACTERISTICS. 129 

old trading relations with the Peninsula, — perhaps the 
wrecked Armada may have had something to do with it. 
The Highlander of Sir Walter, like the Red Indian of 
Cooper, is to a large extent an ideal being. But as Uucas 
does really wear war-paint, wield a tomahawk, scalp his 
enemies, and, when the time comes, can stoically die, so 
the Highlander possesses many of the qualities popularly 
ascribed to him. Scott exaggerated only ; he did not 
invent. He looked with a poet's eye on the district 
north of the Gram^iians, — a vision keener than any 
other for what is, but which burdens, and supplements, 
and glorifies, — which, in point of fact, puts a nimbus 
around everything. The Highlander stands alone amongst 
the British people. For generations his land was shut 
against civilization by mountain and forest and intricate 
pass. "V^^hile the large drama of Scottish history was 
being played out in the Lowlands, he was busy in his 
mists with narrow clan-fights and revenges. While the 
southern Scot owed allegiance to the Jameses, he was 
subject to Lords of the Isles, and to Duncans and Don- 
alds innumerable ; while the one thought of Flodden, 
the other remembered the " sair field of the Harlaw." 
The Highlander was, and is still so far as circumstances 
permit, a proud, loving, punctilious being ; full of loyalty, 
careful of social distinction ; with a bared head for his 
chief, a jealous eye for his equal, an armed heel for his 
inferior. He loved the valley in which he was born, the 
hills on the horizon of his childhood ; his sense of family 
relationship was strong, and around him widening rings 
of cousinship extended to the very verge of the clan. 
The Islesman is a Highlander of the Highlanders ; mod- 
ern life took longer in reaching him, and his weeping 
climate, his misty wreaths and vapors, and the silence of 
6* I 



130 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

his moory environments, naturally continued to act upon 
and to shape his character. He is song-loving, " of im- 
agination all compact " ; and out of the natural phenom- 
ena of his mountain region, — his mist and rain-cloud, 
wan sea-setting of the moon, stars glancing through rifts 
of vapor, blowing wind and broken rainbows, — he has 
drawn his poetry and his superstition. His mists give 
him the shroud high on the living heart, the sea-foam 
gives him an image of the whiteness of the breasts of his 
girls, and the broken rainbow of their blushes. To a 
great extent his climate has made him what he is. He 
is a child of the mist. His songs are melancholy for the 
most part ; and you may discover in his music the mo- 
notony of the brown moor, the seethe of the wave on the 
rock, the sigh of the wind in the long g>asses of the 
deserted churchyard. The musical instrument in which 
he chiefly delights renders most successfully the coronach 
and the battle-march. The Highlands are now open to 
all the influences of civilization. The inhabitants wear 
breeches and speak English even as we. Old gentlemen 
peruse their Times with spectacles on nose. Young lads 
construe " Cornelius Nepos," even as in other quarters 
of the British islands. Young ladies knit, and practise 
music, and wear crinoline. But the old descent and 
breeding are visible through all modern disguises ; and 
your Highlander at Oxford or Cambridge — discoverable 
not only by his rocky countenance, but by some dash of 
wild blood, or eccentricity, or enthusiasm, or logical twist 
and turn of thought — is as much a child of the mist as 
his ancestor who, three centuries ago, was called a " wilde 
man " or a " red shanks " ; who could, if need were, live 
on a little oatmeal, sleep in snow, and, with one hand on 
the stirrup, keep pace with the swiftest horse, let the 



HIGHLAND CHARACTERISTICS. 131 

rider spur never so fiercely. It is in the Isles, however, 
and particularly amongst the old Islesmen, that the High- 
land character is, at this day, to be found in its purity. 
There, in the dwelling of the proprietor, or still more in 
that of the large sheep farmer, — who is of as good blood 
as the laird himself, — you find the hospitality, the preju- 
dice, the generosity, the pride of birth, the delight in 
ancient traditions, which smack of the antique time. 
Love of wandering, and pride in military life, have been 
characteristic of all the old families. The pen is alien to 
their fingers, but they have wielded the sword industri- 
ously. They have had representatives in every Penin- 
sular and Indian battle-field. India has been the chosen 
field of their activity. Of the miniatures kept in every 
family more than one half are soldiers, and several have 
attained to no inconsiderable rank. The Island of Skye 
has itself given to the British and Indian armies at least 
a dozen generals. And in other services the Islesman 
has drawn his sword. Marshall Macdonald had Heb- 
ridean blood in his veins ; and my friend Mr. MTan re- 
members meeting him at Armadale Castle while hunting 
up his relations in the islajid, and tells me that he looked 
like a Jesuit in his long coat. And lads, to whom the 
profession of arms has been shut, have gone to plant 
indigo in Bengal or coffee in Ceylon, and have returned 
with gray hairs to the island to spend their money there, 
and to make the stony soil a little greener ; and during 
their thirty years of absence Gaelic did not moulder on 
their tongues, nor did their fingers forget their cunning 
with the pipes. The palm did not obliterate the memory 
of the birch ; nor the slow up-swelling of the tepid wave, 
and its long roar of frothy thunder on the flat red sands 
at Madras, the coasts of their childhood and the smell 
and smoke of burning kelp. 



132 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

The important names in Skye are Macdonald and 
Macleod. Both are of great antiquity, and it is as diffi- 
cult to discover the source of either in history as it is to 
discover the source of the Nile in the deserts of Central 
Africa. Distance in the one case appalls the geogra- 
pher, and in the other the antiquary. Macdonald is of 
pure Celtic origin, it is understood ; Macleod was origi- 
nally a Norseman. Macdonald was the Lord of the 
Isles, and more than once crossed swords with Scottish 
kings. Time has stripped him of royalty, and the pres- 
ent representative of the family is a Baron merely. He 
sits in his modern castle of Armadale amid pleasant larch 
plantations, with the figure of Somerlid — the half mythi- 
cal founder of his race — in the large window of his hall. 
The two families intermarried often and quarrelled often- 
er. They put wedding rings on each other's fingers and 
dirks into each other's hearts. Of the two, Macleod had 
the darker origin ; and around his name there lingers a 
darker poetry. Macdonald sits in his new castle in 
sunny Sleat with a southern outlook, — Macleod retains 
his old eyrie at Dun vegan, with its drawbridge and 
dungeons. At night he can hear the sea beating on the 
base of his rock. His " maidens " are wet with the sea 
foam. His mountain "tables" are shrouded with the 
mists of the Atlantic. He has a fairy flag in his posses- 
sion. The rocks and mountains around him wear his 
name even as of old did his clansmen. " Macleod's coun- 
try," the people yet call the northern portion of the 
island. In Skye song and tradition Macdonald is like 
the green strath with milkmaids milking kine in the fold 
at sunset, with fishers singing songs as they mend brown 
nets on the shore. Macleod, on the other hand, is of 
darker and drearier import, — like a wild rocky spire of 



KING HACO. 133 

Quirang or Storr, dimmed with the flying vapor and 
familiar with the voice of the blast and the wing of the 
raven. " Macleod's country " looks toward Norway with 
the pale headlands of Greshornish, Trotternish, and Dur- 
inish. The portion of the island which Macdonald owns 
is comparatively soft and green, and lies to the south. 

The Western Islands lie mainly out of the region of 
Scottish history, and yet by Scottish history they are 
curiously touched at intervals, Skye more particularly so. 
In 1263 when King Haco set out on his great expedi- 
tion against Scotland with one hundred ships and twenty 
thousand men, — an Armada, the period taken into con- 
sideration, quite as formidable as the more famous and 
ill-fated Spanish one some centuries later, — the multi- 
tude of his sails darkened the Skye lochs. Snizort speaks 
of him yet. He passed through the Kyles, breathed for 
a little while at Kerrera, and then swept down on the 
Ayrshire coast, where King Alexander awaited him, and 
where the battle of Largs was fought.* After the bat- 

* This battle occupies the same place in early Scottish annals that 
Trafalgar or Waterloo occupies in later British ones. It stands in the 
dawn of Scottish history, — resonant, melodious. Unhappily, how- 
ever, the truth must be told, — the battle was a drawn one, neither 
side being able to claim the victory. Professor Munch, in his notes 
to "The Chronicle of Man and the Sudreys," gives the following ac- 
count of the combat, and of the negotiations that preceded it: — 

'• When King Hacon appeared off Ayr, and anchored at Arran, King 
Alexander, who appears to have been present himself at Ayr, or in the 
neighborhood of the town, with the greater part of his forces, now 
opened negotiations, sending several messages by Franciscan or Do- 
minican Friars for the purpose of treating for peace. Nor did King 
Hacon show himself unwilling to negotiate, and proved this sufficient- 
ly by permitting Eogan of Argyll to depart in peace, loading him, more- 
over, with presents, on the condition that he should do his best to 
bring about a reconciliation, — Eogan pledging himself, if he did not 
succeed, to return to King Hacon. Perhaps it was due to the exertions 



134 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

tie Haco, grievously tormented by tempests, sailed for 
Norway, where he died. This was the last invasion of 
the Northmen, and a few years after the islands were 

of Eogan, that a truce was concluded, in order to commence negotia- 
tions in a more formal manner. King Hacon now despatched an em- 
bassy, consisting of two bishops, Gilbert of Hamar, and Henry of Ork- 
ney, with three barons, to Alexander, whom they found at Ayr. They 
were well received, but could not get any definite answer, — Alexan- 
der alleging that, before proposing the conditions, he must consult 
with his councillors; this done, he should not fail to let King Hacon 
know the result. The Norwegian messengers, therefore, returned to 
their king, who meanwhile had removed to Bute. The next day, 
however, messengers arrived from King Alexander, bringijig a list of 
those isles which he would not resign, — viz., Arran, Bute, and the 
Cumreys, (that is, generally speaking, the isles inside Kentire,) which 
implies that he now offered to renounce his claim to all the others. It 
is certainly not to be wondered at that he did not Like to see those 
isles, which commanded the entrance to the Clyde, in the hands of 
another power. King Hacon, however, had prepared another list, 
which contained the names of all those isles which he claimed for the 
crown of Norway ; and although the exact contents are not known, 
there can be no doubt that at least Arran and Bute were among the 
number. The Saga says that, on the whole, there was, after all, no 
great difference, but that, nevertheless, no final reconciliation could 
be obtained, — the Scotchmen trying only to protract the negotiations 
because the summer was past, and the bad weather was begun. The 
Scotch messengers at last returned, and King Hacon removed with 
the fleet to the Cumreys, near Largs, in the direction of Cuningham, 
no doubt with a view of being either nearer at hand if the negotiations 
failed, and a landing was to be effected, or only of intimidating his 
opponents and hastening the conclusion of the peace, as the roadstead 
in itself seems to have been far less safe than that of Lamlash or Bute. 
King Alexander sent, indeed, several messages, and it was agreed to 
hold a new congress a little farther up in the country, which shows 
that King Alexander now had removed from Ayr to a spot nearer 
Largs, perhaps to Camphill, (on the road from Largs to Kilbirnie,) 
where a local tradition states the king encamped. The Norwegian 
messengers were, as before, some bishops and barons; the Scotch 
commissaries were some knights and monks. The deliberations were 
long, but still without any result. At last, when the day was declin- 
ing, a crowd of Scotchmen began to gather, and, as it continued to 



KING HACO. 135 

formally ceded to Scotland. Although ceded, however, 
they could hardly be said to be ruled by the Scottish 
kings. After the termination of the Norway govern- 

increase, the Norwegians, not thinking themselves safe, retumed with- 
out having obtained anything. The Norwegian warriors now de- 
manded earnestly that the truce should be renounced, because their 
provisions had begun to be scarce, and they wanted to plunder. 
King Hacon accordingly sent one of his esquires, named Kolbein, to 
King Alexander with the letter issued by this monarch, ordering him 
to claim back that given by himself, and thus declare the truce to be 
ended, previously, however, pi'oposing that both kings should meet at 
the head of their respective armies, and try a personal conference be- 
fore coming to extremities; only, if that failed, they might go to bat- 
tle as the last expedient. King Alexander, however, did not declare 
his intention plainly, and Kolbein, tired of waiting, delivered up the 
letter, got that of King Hacon back, and thus rescinded the truce. 
He was escorted to the ships by two monks. Kolbein, when report- 
ing to King Hacon his proceedings, told him that Eogan of Argyll 
had earnestly tried to persuade King Alexander from fighting with the 
Norwegians. It does not seem, however, that Eogan went back to 
King Hacon according to his promise. This monarch now was greatly 
exasperated, and desired the Scottish monks, when returning, to tell 
their king that he would very soon recommence the hostilities, and 
try the issue of a battle. 

"Accordingly, King Hacon detached King Dugald, Alan M'Rory 
his brother, Angus of Isla, Murchard of Kentire, and two Norwegian 
commanders, with sixty ships, to sail into Loch Long, and ravage the 
circumjacent ports, while he prepared to land himself with the main 
force at Largs, and fight the Scottish army. The detachment does 
not appear to have met with any serious resistance, all the Scotch 
forces being probably collected near Largs. The banks of Loch 
Lomond and the whole of Lennox were ravaged. Angus even ven- 
tured across the country to the other side, probably near Stirling, 
killing men and taking a great number of cattle. This done, the 
troops who had been on shore returned to the ships. Here, how- 
ever, a terrible storm, which blew for two days, (Oct. 1 and 2,) 
wrecked ten vessels ; and one of the Norwegian captains was taken 
sick and died suddenly. 

" Also the main fleet, off Largs, suffered greatly by the same tem- 
pest. It began in the night between Sunday (Sept. 30) and ^londay 
(Oct. 1), accompanied by violent showers. A large transport vessel 



136 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

ment, the Hebrides were swayed "by the Macdonalds, 
who called themselves Lords of the Isles. These chief- 
tains waxed powerful, and they more than once led the 

drifted down on the bow of the royal ship, swept off the gallion, and 
got foul of the cable; it was at last cast loose and drifted toward the 
island; but on the royal ship it had been necessary to remove the 
usual awnings and covers, and in the morning (Oct. 1) when the flood 
commenced, the wind likewise turned, and the vessel, along with 
another vessel of transport and a ship of war, was driven on the main 
beach, where it stuck fast, the royal ship drifting down while with 
five anchors, and only stopped when the eighth had been let go. The 
king had found it safest to land in a boat on the Cumrey, with the 
clergy, who celebrated mass, the greater part believing that the tem- 
pest had been raised by witchcraft. Soon the other ships began to 
drift; several had to cut away the masts; five drifted towards the 
shore, and three went aground. The men on board these ships were 
now dangerously situated, because the Scotch, who from their ele- 
vated position could see very well what passed in the fleet, sent down 
detachments against them, while the storm prevented their comrades 
in the fleet from coming to their aid. They manned, however, the 
large vessel which had first drifted on shore, and defended themselves 
as well as they could against the superior force of the enemy, who be- 
gan shooting at them. Happily the storm abated a little, and the king 
was not only able to return on board his ships, but even sent them 
some aid in boats; the Scotch were put to flight, and the Norwegians 
were able to pass the night on shore. Yet, in the dark, some Scots 
found their way to the vessel and took what they could. In the 
morning (Tuesday, Oct. 2) the king himself, with some barons and 
some troops, went to shore in boats to secure the valuable cargo of 
the transport, or what was left of it, in which they succeeded. Now, 
however, the main army of the Scots was seen approaching, and the 
king, who at first meant to remain on shore and head his troops him- 
self, was prevailed upon by his men, who feared lest he should ex- 
pose himself too much, to return on board his ship. The number of 
the Norwegians left on shore did not exceed 1,000 men, 240 of whom, 
commanded by the Baron Agmund Krokidans, occupied a hillock, 
the rest were stationed on the beach. The Scotch, it is related in the 
Saga, had about 600 horsemen in armor, several of whom had Span- 
ish steeds, all covered with mail; they had a great deal of infantry, 
well armed, especially with bows and Lochaber axes. The Nor- 
wegians believed that King Alexander himself was in the army : per- 



THE LORDS OF THE ISLES. 137 

long-haired Islesmen into Scotland, where they murdered, 
burned, and ravaged without mercy. In 1411 Donald, 
one of those island kings, descended on the mainland, and 

haps this is true. We learn, however, from Fordun that the real com- 
mander was Alexander of Dundonald, the Stewart of Scotland. The 
Scotch first attacked the knoll with the 240 men, who retired slowly, 
always facing the enemy and fighting; but in retracing their steps 
down hill, as they could not avoid accelerating their movement as the 
impulse increased, those on the beach believed that they were routed, 
and a sudden panic betook them for a moment, which cost many 
lives; as the boats were too much crowded they sank with their 
load; others, who did not reach the boats, fled in a southerly direc- 
tion, and were pursued by the Scotch, who killed many of them; 
others sought refuge in the aforesaid stranded vessel; at last they 
rallied behind one of the stranded ships of war, and an obstinate bat- 
tle began; the Norwegians, now that the panic was over, fighting 
desperately. Then it was that the young and valiant Piers of Curry, 
of whom even Fordun and Wyntown speak, was killed by the Nor- 
wegian baron Andrew Nicholasson, after having twice ridden through 
the Norwegian ranks. The storm for a while prevented King Hacon 
from aiding his men, and the Scotch being tenfold stronger, began to 
get the upper hand ; but at last two barons succeeded in landing with 
fresh troops, when the Scotch were gradually driven back upon the 
knoll, and then put to flight towards the hills. This done, the Nor- 
wegians returned on board the ships ; on the following morning (Oct. 3) 
they returned on shore to carry away the bodies of the slain, which, 
it appears, they efl"ected quite unmolested by the enemy; all the 
bodies were carried to a church, no doubt in Bute, and there buried- 
The next day, (Thursday, Oct. 4,) the king removed his ship farther 
out under the island, and the same day the detachment arrived which 
had been sent to Loch Long. The folio whig day, (Friday, Oct. 5,) 
the weather being fair, the king sent men on shore to burn the 
stranded ships, which likewise appears to have been eff'ected without 
any hinderance from the enemy. On the same day he removed with 
the whole fleet to Lamlash harbor." 

With what a curious particularity the Saga relates the events of 
this smokeless ancient combat, — so different from modern ones, where 
" the ranks are rolled in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound," 
— and how Piers of Curry, " who had ridden twice through the Nor- 
wegian ranks," towers amongst the combatants! As the describer 
of battles, since the invention of gunpowder, Homer would be no 



138 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

was sorely defeated by the Earl of Mar at Harlaw, near 
Aberdeen. By another potentate of the same stock the 
counties of Ross and Moray were ravaged in 1456. In 
the Western Islands the Macdonalds exercised authentic 
sovereignty ; they owned allegiance to the Scottish king 
when he penetrated into their remote dominions, and dis- 
owned it whenever he turned his back. The Macdonald 
dynasty, or quasi dynasty, existed till 1536, when the 
last Lord of the Isles died without an heir, and when 
there was no shoulder on which the mantle of his author- 
ity could fall. 

How the Macdonalds came into their island throne it 
would be difficult, by the flickering rushlight of history, 
to discover. But wandering up and down the islands, 
myself and the narrator swathed in a film of blue peat- 
smoke, a ray of dusty light streaming in through tho 
green bull's-eye in the window, I have heard the follow- 
ing account given : — The branches of the Macdonald 
family, Macdonald of Sleat, Clanranald, who wears the 
white heather in his bonnet, the analogue of the white 
rose, and which has been dipped in blood quite as often, 
Keppoch, one of whose race fell at Culloden, and the 
rest, were descended from a certain Godfrey, King of 
Argyll. This Godfrey had four sons, and one of them 
was named Somerlid, youngest, bravest, handsomest of 
all. But unhappily Somerlid was without ambition. 
"While his brothers were burning and ravaging and slaying, 
grasping lands and running away with rich heiresses, after 

better than Sir Archibald Alison. We have more explicit information 
as to this skirmish on the Ayrshire coast in the thirteenth century than 
we have concerning the battle of Solferino; and yet King Hacon has 
been in his grave these five centuries, and Napoleon III. and Kaiser 
Joseph yet live. And " Our Own Correspondent " had not come into 
the world at that date either. 



SOMERLID. 139 

the fashion of promising young gentlemen of that era, the 
indolent and handsome giant employed himself in hunt- 
ing and fishing. His looking-glass was the stream ; his 
drinking-cup the heel of his shoe ; he would rather spear 
a salmon than spear his foe ; he burned no churches, the 
only throats he cut were the throats of deer ; he cared 
more to caress the skins of seals and otters than the shin- 
ing hair of w^omen. Old Godfrey liked the lad's looks, 
but had a contempt for his peaceful ways, and, shaking 
his head, thought him little better than a ne'er-do-weel or 
a silly one. But for all that, there was a deal of unsus- 
pected matter in Somerlid. At present he was peaceful 
as a torch or a beacon — unlit. The hour was coming 
when he would be changed ; when he would blaze like a 
brandished torch, or a beacon on a hill-top against which 
the wind is blowing. 

It so happened that the men of the TVestern Isles had 
lost their chief. There was no one to lead them to bat- 
tle, and it was absolutely necessary that a leader should 
be procured. Much meditating to whom they should 
offer their homage, they bethought themselves of the 
young hunter chasing deer on the Argyllshire hills. A 
council was held ; and it was resolved that a deputation 
should be sent to Somerlid to state their case, and to offer 
that if he should accept the office of chieftain, he and his 
children should be their chieftains forever. In some 
half-dozen galleys the deputation set sail, and finally ar- 
rived at the court of old Godfrey. When they told what 
they wanted, that potentate sent them to seek Somerlid ; 
and him they found fishing. Somerlid listened to their 
words with an unmoved countenance ; and when they 
were done, he went aside a little to think over the mat- 
ter. That done he came forward : " Islesmen," he said, 



140 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

" there *s a newly run salmon in the black pool yonder. 
If I catch him, I shall go with you as your chief; if I 
catch him not, I shall remain where I am." To this the 
men of the Isles were agreeable, and they sat down on 
the banks of the river to watch the result. Somerlid 
threw his line over the black pool, and in a short time 
the silvery mail of the salmon was gleaming on the yel- 
low sands of the river bank. When they saw this the 
Islesmen shouted ; and so, after bidding farewell to his 
father, the elect of the thousands stepped into the largest 
galley, and with the others in his wake, sailed toward 
Skye a chief! 

When was there a warrior like Somerlid ? He spoiled 
and ravaged like an eagle. He delighted in battle. He 
rolled his garments in blood. He conquered island after 
island ; he went out with empty galleys, and he returned 
with them filled with prey, his oarsmen singing his 
praises. He built up his island throne. He was the 
first Lord of the Isles ; and from his loins sprung all the 
Lords of the Isles that ever were. He was a Macdon- 
ald, and from him the Macdonalds of Sleat are descended. 
He wore a tartan of his own, which only the Prince of 
Wales and the young Lord Macdonald, sitting to-day in 
Eton school, are entitled to wear. And if at any time I 
ventured to impugn the truth of this legend, I was told 
that if I went to Armadale Castle I should see the image 
of Somerlid in the great window of the hall. That was 
surely confirmation of the truth of the story. He must 
surely be a sceptical Sassenach who would disbelieve 
after witnessing that. 

Although the Lords of the Isles exercised virtual sov- 
ereignty in the Hebrides, the Jameses made many at- 
tempts to break their power and bring them into sub- 



THE SPANISH ARMADA. 141 

jection. James I. penetrated into the Highlands, and 
assembled a Parliament at Inverness in 1427. He en- 
ticed many of the chiefs to his court, and seized, impris- 
oned, and executed several of the more powerful. Those 
who escaped with their lives were forced to deliver up 
hostages. In fact, the Scottish kings looked upon the 
Highlanders very much as they looked upon the border- 
ers. In moments of fitful energy they broke on the 
Highlands just as they broke upon Ettrick and Liddes- 
dale, and hanged and executed right and left. One of 
the acts of Parliament of James IV. declared that the 
Highlands and Islands had become savage for want of a 
proper administration of justice; and James V. made a 
voyage to the Islands in 1536, when many of the chiefs 
were captured and carried away. It was about this time 
that the last Lord of the Isles died. The Jameses were 
now kings of the Highlands and Islands, but they were only 
king in a nominal sense. Every chief regarded himself 
as a sort of independent prince. The Highland chieftains 
appeared at Holyrood, it is true; but they drew dirks 
and shed blood in the presence ; they were wanting in 
reverence for the sceptre ; they brought their own feuds 
with them to the Scottish court, and when James VI. 
attempted to dissolve these feuds in the wine-cup, he 
met with but indifferent success. So slight was lawful 
authority in 1589 that the island of the Lewes was 
granted by the crown to a body of Fife gentlemen, if 
they would but take and hold possession, — just as the 
lands of the rebellious Maories might be granted to the 
colonists at the present day. 

Many a gallant ship of the Spanish Armada was 
wrecked on the shores of the Western Islands, on the 
retreat to Spain ; and a gun taken from one of these, it 



142 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

is said, lies at Dunstaffnage Castle. In the Islands you 
yet come across Spanish names, and traces of Spanish 
blood ; and the war ships of Spain that came to grief on 
the bleak headlands of Skye and Lewes may have some- 
thing to do with that. Where the vase is broken there 
Btill lingers the scent of the roses. The connection be- 
tween Spain and the Western Islands is little more than 
a mere accident of tempest. Then came the death of 
Elizabeth and the accession of James to the English 
throne ; and the time was fast approaching when the 
Highlander would become a more important personage 
than ever ; when the claymore would make its mark in 
British History. 

At first sight it is a matter of wonder that the clans 
should ever have become Jacobite. They were in no- 
wise indebted to the house of Stuart. With the Scottish 
kings the Highlands and Islands were almost continually 
at war. When a James came amongst the northern 
chieftains he carried an ample death-warrant in his face. 
The presents he brought were the prison key, the hang- 
man's rope, the axe of the executioner. When the 
power departed from the Lords of the Isles, the clans 
regarded the king who sat in Holyrood as their nominal 
superior; but they were not amenable to any central 
law ; each had its own chief, — was self-contained, self- 
governed, and busy with its own private revenges and 
forays. When the Lowland burgher was busy with 
commerce, and the Lowland farmer was busy with his 
crops, the clansman walked his misty mountains very 
much as his fathers did centuries before; and his hand 
was as familiar with the hilt of his broadsword as the 
hand of the Perth burgher with the ellwand, or that of 
the farmer of the Lothians with the plough-shaft. The 



MONTROSE. 143 

Lowlander had become indu*strious and commercial ; the 
Highlander still loved the skirmish and the raid. The 
Lowlands had become rich in towns, in money, in goods ; 
the Highlands were rich only in swordsmen. When 
Charles's troubles with his Parliament began, the valor 
of the Highlands was wasting itself; and Montrose was 
the first man who saw how that valor could be utilized. 
Himself a feudal chief, and full of feudal feeling, when 
he raised the banner of the king he appealed to the an- 
cient animosities of the clans. His arch-foe was Argyll ; 
he knew that Campbell was a widely-hated name; and 
that hate he made his recruiting sergeant. He bribed 
the chiefs, but his bribe was revenge. The mountaineers 
flocked to his standard; but they came to serve them- 
selves rather than to serve Charles. The defeat of 
Argyll might be a good thing for the king; but with 
that they had little concern, — it was the sweetest of 
private revenges, and righted a century of wrongs. The 
Macdonalds of Sleat fought under the great Marquis at 
Inverlochy ; but the Skye shepherd considers only that 
on that occasion his forefathers had a grand slaying of 
their hereditary enemies, — he has no idea that the in- 
terest of the king was at all involved ia the matter. 
"While the battle was proceeding, blind Allan sat on the 
castle walls with a little boy beside him ; the boy related 
how the battle went, and the bard wove the incidents 
into extemporaneous song, — full of scorn and taunts 
when the retreat of Argyll in his galley is described, — 
full of exultation when the bonnets of fifteen hundred 
dead Campbells are seen floathig in the Lochy, — and 
blind Allan's song you can hear repeated in Skye at this 
day. When the splendid career of Montrose came to 
an end at Philiphaugh, the clansmen who won his battles 



144 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

for him were no more adh^ents of the king than they 
had been centuries before: but then they had gratified 
hatred; they had had ample opportunities for phmder; 
the chiefs had gained a new importance ; they had been 
assured of the royal gratitude and remembrance ; and 
if they received but scant supplies of royal gold, they 
were promised argosies. By fighting under Montrose 
they were in a sense committed to the cause of the king ; 
and when at a later date Claverhouse again raised the 
royal standard, that argument was successfully used. 
They had already served the house of Stuart ; they had 
gained victories in its behalf: the king would not always 
be in adversity ; the time would come when he would be 
able to reward his friends ; having put their hands to the 
plough it would be folly to turn back. And so a second 
time the clans rose, and at Killiecrankie an avalanche 
of kilted men broke the royal lines, and in a quarter of 
an hour a disciplined army was in ruins, and the bed 
of the raging Garry choked with corpses. By this time 
the Stuart cause had gained a footing in the Highlands, 
mainly from the fact that the clans had twice fought in 
its behalf. Then a dark whisper of the massacre of 
Glencoe passed through the glens, — and the clansmen 
believed that the princes they had served would not have 
violated every claim of hospitality, and shot them down 
so on their own hearthstones. All this confirmed the 
growing feeling of attachment to the king across the 
water. When the Earl of Mar rose in 1715, Macdonald 
of Sleat joined him with his men ; and being sent out 
to drive away a party of tlie enemy who had appeared 
on a neighboring height, opened the battle of SherifFmuir. 
In 1745, when Prince Charles landed in Knoydart, he 
sent letters to Macdonald and Macleod in Skye soliciting 



FLORA MACDONALD AND PRINCE CHARLES. 145 

their aid. Between them tlicy could have brought 2,000 
claymores into the field ; and had the prince brought a 
foreign force with them, they might have complied with 
his request. As it was, they hesitated, and finally re- 
solved to range themselves on the side of the Govern- 
ment. Not a man from Sleat fought under the prince. 
The other great branches of the Macdouald family, 
Clanranald, Keppoch, and Glengarry, joined him, how- 
ever ; and Keppoch at CuUoden, when he found that his 
men were broken, and would not rally at the call of 
their chief, charged the English lines alone, and was 
brought down by a musket bullet. 

The Skye gentlemen did not rise at the call of the 
prince, but when his cause was utterly lost, a Skye lady 
came to his aid, and rendered him essential service. 
Neither at the time, nor afterwards, did Flora Macdonald 
consider herself a heroine, (although Grace Darling her- 
self did not bear a braver heart ;) and she is noticeable 
to this day in history, walking demurely with the white 
rose in her bosom. When the prince met Miss Mac- 
donald in Benbecula, he was in circumstances sufficiently 
desperate. The lady had expressed an anxious desire 
to see Charles ; and at their meeting, which took place 
in a hut belonging to her brother, it struck Captain 
O'Neil, an oflicer attached to the prince, and at the 
moment the sole companion of his wanderings, that she 
might carry Charles with her to Skye in the disguise of 
her maid-servant. Miss Macdonald consented. She pro- 
cured a six-oared boat, and when she and her companions 
entered the hovel in which the prince lay, they found 
him engaged in roasting for dinner with a wooden spit 
the heart, liver, and kidneys of a sheep. They were 
full of compassion, of course ; but the prince, who pos- 
7 J 



146 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

sessed the wit as well as the courage of his family, 
turned his misfortunes into jests. The party sat down 
to dinner not uncareless of state. Flora sat on the right 
hand, and Lady Clanranald, one of Flora's companions, 
on the left hand of the prince. They talked of St. James's 
as they sat at their rude repast ; and stretching out hands 
of hope, warmed themselves at the fire of the future. 

After dinner Charles equipped himself in the attire 
of a maid-servant. His dress consisted of a flowered 
linen gown, a light-colored quilted petticoat, a white 
apron, and a mantle of dun camlet, made after the Irish 
fashion, with a hood. They supped on the sea-shore; 
and while doing so a messenger arrived with the intelli- 
gence that a body of military was in the neighborhood 
in quest of the fugitive ; and on hearing this news Lady 
Clanranald immediately went home. They sailed in the 
evening with a fair wind, but they had not rowed above 
a league when a storm arose, and Charles had to support 
the spirits of his companions by singing songs and mak- 
ing merry speeches. They came in sight of the pale 
Skye headlands in the morning, and as they coasted 
along the shore they were fired on by a party of Macleod 
militia. While the bullets were falling around, the prince 
and Flora lay down in the bottom of the boat. The 
militia were probably indifferent marksmen ; at all events, 
no one was hurt. 

Afcer coasting along for a space, they landed at Mug- 
stot, the seat of Sir Alexander Macdonald. Lady Mac- 
donald was a daughter of the Earl of Eglinton's, and 
an avowed Jacobite ; and as it was known that Sir Alex- 
ander was at Fort Augustus with the Duke of Cumber- 
land, they had no scruple in seeking protection. Charles 
was left in the boat, and Flora went forward to apprise 



FLORA MACDONALD AND PRINCE CHARLES. 147 

Lady Macdonald of their arrival. Unhappily, however, 
there was a Captain Macleod, an ofl&cer of militia, in the 
house, and Flora had to parry as best she could his in- 
terrogations concerning Charles, whose head was worth 
thirty thousand pounds. Lady Macdonald was in great 
alarm lest the presence of the prince should be discov- 
ered. Kingsburgh, Sir Alexander's factor, was on the 
spot, and the ladies took him into their confidence. Af- 
ter consultation, it was agreed that Skye was unsafe, and 
that Charles should proceed at once to Raasay, taking up 
his residence at Kingsburgh by the way. 

During all this while Charles remained on the shore, 
feeling probably very much as a Charles of another cen- 
tury did, when, shrouded up in oak foliage, he heard the 
Roundhead riding beneath. Kingsburgh was anxious to 
acquaint him with the determination of his friends ; but 
then, there was the pestilent captain on the premises, 
who might prick his ear at a whisper, and whose suspi- 
cion, if once aroused, might blaze out into ruinous action. 
Kingsburgh had concerted his plan, but in carrying it 
into execution it behooved him to tread so lightly that 
the blind mole should not hear a footfall. He sent a 
servant down to the shore to inform the strange maid- 
servant with the mannish stride that he meant to visit 
her, but that in the mean time she should screen herself 
from observation behind a neighboring hill. Taking with 
him wine and provisions, Kingsburgh went out in search 
of the prince. He searched for a considerable time 
without finding him, and was about to return to the 
house, when at some little distance he observed a scurry 
amongst a flock of sheep. Knowing that sheep did not 
scurry about after that fashion for their own amusement, 
he approached the spot, when all at once the prince 



148 A SUMMEU m SKYE. 

started out upon him like another Meg Merrilies, a large 
knotted stick in his fist. "I am Macdonald of Kings- 
burgh," said the visitor, " come to serve your highness." 
" It is well," said Charles, saluting him. Kingsburgh 
then opened out his plan, with which the prince ex- 
pressed himself satisfied. After Charles had partaken 
of some refreshment, they both started towards Kings- 
burgh House. 

The ladies at Mugstot were all this while in sad 
perplexity; and to that perplexity, on account of the 
presence of the captain of militia, they could not give 
utterance. As Kingsburgh had not returned, they could 
only hope that he had succeeded in finding the prince, 
and in removing him from that dangerous neighborhood. 
Meanwhile dinner was announced, and the captain po- 
litely handed in the ladies. He drank his wine, paid 
Miss Macdonald his most graceful compliments, — for a 
captain, if even of militia only, can never, in justice to 
his cloth, be indifferent to the fair. It belongs to his 
profession to be gallant, as it belongs to the profession of 
a clergyman to say grace before meat. We may be sure, 
however, that his roses of compliment stung like nettles. 
He talked of the prince, as a matter of course, — the 
prince being the main topic of conversation in the islands 
at the period, — perhaps expressed a strong desire to 
catch him. All this the ladies had to endure, hiding, 
as the way of the sex is, fluttering hearts under coun- 
tenances most hypocritically composed. After dinner. 
Flora rose at once, but a look from Lady Macdonald 
induced her to remain for yet a little. Still the gallant 
captain's talk flowed on, and he must be deceived at any 
cost. At last Miss Flora was moved with the most filial 
feelings. She was anxious to be with her mother, to 



FLORA MACDONALD AND PRINCE CHARLES. 149 

stay and comfort her in these troublous times. She must 
really be going. Lady Macdonald pressed her to stay, — 
got the gallant captain to bring his influence to bear, — 
but with no effect. The wilful young lady would not 
listen to entreaty. Her father was absent, and at such 
a time the claim of a lone mother on a daughter's atten- 
tion was paramount. Her apology was accepted at last, 
but only on the condition that she should return soon to 
Mugstot and make a longer stay. The ladies embraced 
each other, and then Miss Macdonald mounted, and at- 
tended by several servants rode after Prince Charles, 
who was now some distance on the road to Kingsburgh. 
Lady Macdonald returned to the captain, than whom sel- 
dom has one, whether of the line or the militia, been 
more cleverly hoodwinked. 

Miss Macdonald's party, when she rode after the prince 
and Kingsburgh, consisted of Neil M'Eachan, who acted 
as guide, and Mrs. Macdonald, who was attended by a 
male and female servant. They overtook the prince, and 
Mrs. Macdonald, who had never seen him before, was 
anxious to obtain a peep of his countenance. This 
Charles carefully avoided. Mrs. Macdonald's maid, no- 
ticing the uncouth appearance of th6 tall female figure, 
whispered to IVIiss Flora that she " had never seen such 
an impudent-looking woman as the one with whom Kings- 
burgh was talking," and expressed her belief that the 
stranger was either an Irishwoman or a man in woman's 
clothes. Miss Flora whispered in reply, " that she was 
right in her conjecture ; that the Amazon was really an 
Irishwoman ; that she knew her, having seen her be- 
fore." The abigail then exclaimed, " Bless me, what long 
strides the jade takes, and how awkwardly she manages 
her clothes ! " Miss Macdonald, wishing to put an end 



150 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

to this conversation, urged the party to a trot. The 
pedestrians then struck across the hills, and reached 
Kingsburgh House about eleven o'clock, the equestrians 
arriving soon after. 

When they arrived there was some difficulty about 
supper, Mrs. Macdonald of Kingsburgh having retired to 
rest. When her husband told her that the prince was 
in the house, she got up immediately, and under her 
direction the board was spread. The viands were egg--', 
butter, and cheese. Charles supped heartily, and after 
drinking a few glasses of wine, and smoking a pipe of 
tobacco, went to bed. Next morning there was a discus- 
sion as to the clothes he should wear ; Kingsburgh, fear- 
ing that his disguise should become known, urged Charles 
to wear a Highland dress, to which he gladly agreed. 
But as there were sharp eyes of servants about, it was 
arranged that, to prevent suspicion, he should leave the 
house in the same clothes in which he had come, and 
that he should change his dress on the road. When he 
had dressed himself in his feminine garments and come 
into the sitting-room, Charles noticed that the ladies were 
whispering together eagerly, casting looks on him the 
while. He desired to know the subject of conversation, 
and was informed by Mrs. Macdonald that they wished 
a lock of his hair. The prince consented at once, and 
laying down his head in Miss Flora's lap, a lock of yel- 
low hair was shorn off, — to be treasured as the dearest 
of family relics, and guarded as jealously as good fame. 
Some silken threads of that same lock of hair I have 
myself seen. Mr. M'lan has some of it in a ring, which 
will probably be buried with him. After the hair was 
cut off, Kingsburgh presented the prince with a new pair 
of shoes, and the old ones — through which the toes pro- 



FLORA MACDONALD AND PRINCE CHARLES. 151 

truded — were put aside, and considered as only less 
sacred than the shred of hair. They were afterwards 
bought by a Jacobite gentleman for twenty guinea^:, — 
the highest recorded price ever paid for that article. 

Kingsburgh, Flora, and the prince then started for 
Portree, Kingsburgh carrying the Highland dress under 
his arm. After walking a short distance Charles entered 
a wood and changed his attire. He now wore a tartan 
short coat and waistcoat, with philabeg and hose, a plaid, 
and a wig and bonnet. Here Kingsburgh parted from 
the prince, and returned home. Conducted by a guide, 
Charles then started across the hills, while Miss Mac- 
donald galloped along the common road to Portree to see 
how the land lay, and to become acquainted with the 
rumors stirring in the country. 

There was considerable difficulty in getting the prince 
out of Skye ; a Portree crew could not be trusted, as on 
their return they might blab the whereabouts of the fugi- 
tive. In this dilemma a friend of the prince's bethought 
himself that there was a small boat on one of the neigh- 
boring Lochs, and the boat was dragged by two broth- 
ers, aided by some women, across a mile of boggy ground 
to the sea-shore. It was utterly unseaworthy, — leaky 
as the old brogues which Kingsburgh valued so much, — 
but the two brothers nothing fearing got it launched, and 
rowed across to Raasay. 

When the news came that the prince was at hand, 
Young Raasay, who had not been out in the rebellion, 
and his cousin, Malcolm Macleod, who had been, pro- 
cured a strong boat, and with two oarsmen, whom they 
had sworn to secrecy, pulled across to Skye. They 
landed about half a mile from Portree, and Malcolm 
Macleod, accompanied by one of the men, went towards 



152 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

the inn, where he found the prince and Miss Macdonald. 
It had been raining heavily, and before he arrived, 
Charles was soaked to the skin. The first thing the 
prince called for was a dram ; he then put on a dry shirt, 
and after that he made a hearty meal on roasted fish, 
bread, cheese, and butter. The people in the inn had no 
suspicion of his rank, and with them he talked and joked. 
Malcolm Macleod had by this time gone back to the 
boat, where he waited the prince's coming. The guide 
implored Charles to go off at once, pointed out that the 
inn was a gathering place for all sorts of people, and that 
some one might penetrate his disguise, — to all this the 
prince gave ready assent; but it rained still, and he 
spoke of risking everything and waiting where he was 
all night. The guide became yet more urgent, and the 
prince at last expressed his readiness to leave, only be- 
foi^e going he wished to smoke a pipe of tobacco. He 
smoked his pipe, bade farewell to Miss Macdonald, re- 
paid her a small sum which he had borrowed, gave her 
his miniature, and expressed the hope that he should yet 
welcome her at St. James's. Early in the dawn of the 
July morning, with four shirts, a bottle of brandy tied to 
one side of his belt, a bottle of whiskey tied to the other, 
and a cold fowl done up in a pocket-handkerchief, he, 
under the direction of a guide, went down to the rocky 
shore, where the boat had so long been waiting. In a 
few hours they reached Raasay. 

In Raasay the prince did not remain long. He re- 
turned to Skye, abode for a space in Strath, dwelling in 
strange places, and wearing many disguises, — finally, 
through the aid of the chief of the Mackinnons, he 
reached the mainland. By this time it had become known 
to the Government that the prince had been wandering 



FRORA MACDONALD AND PRINCE CHARLES. 153 

about the island, and Malcolm Macleod, Kingsburgh, and 
Miss Macdonald were apprehended. Miss Macdouald 
was at first confined in Dunstaffnage Castle, and was 
afterwards conveyed to London. Her imprisonment does 
not seem to have been severe, and she was liberated, it is 
said, at the special request of Frederick Prince of Wales. 
She and Malcolm Macleod returned to Scotland togetlier. 
In 1750 Flora married Allan Macdonald, young Kings- 
burgh, and on the death of his father in 1772 the young 
people went to live on the farm. Here they received 
Dr. Johnson and Boswell. Shortly after, the family went 
to America, and in 1775 Kingsburgh joined the Royal 
Highland Emigrant Regiment. He afterwards served in 
Canada, and finally returned to Skye on half-pay. Flora 
had seven children, five sons and two daughters, the sons 
after the old Skye fashion becoming soldiers, and the 
daughters the wives of soldiers. She died in 1790, and 
was buried in the churchyard of Kilmuir. To the dis- 
credit of the Skye gentlemen — in many of whom her 
blood flows — the grave is in a state of utter disrepair. 
When I saw it two or three months ago it was covered 
with a rank growth of nettles. These are untouched. 
The tourist will deface tombstones, and carry away chips 
from a broken bust, but a nettle the boldest or the most 
enthusiastic will hardly pluck and convey from even the 
most celebrated grave. A line must be drawn some- 
where, and Vandalism draws the line at nettles, — it will 
not sting its own fingers for the world. 

Death ! O Time ! O men and women of whom we 
have read, what eager but unavailing hands we stretch 
towards you ! How we would hear your voices, see your 
faces, but note the wafture of your garments ! With a 
strange feeling one paces round the ruins of the house 
7* 



154 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

of Corachatachin, thinking of the debauch held therein 
a hundred years ago by a dead Boswell and young High- 
land bloods, dead too. But the ruin of the old house of 
• Kingsburgh moves one more than the ruin of the old 
house of Corachatachin. On the shore of Loch Snizort 

— waters shadowed once by the sails of Haco's galleys 

— we stumble on the latter ancient site. The outline 
of the walls is distinguished by a mere protuberance on 
the grassy turf; and in the space where fires burned, and 
little feet pattered, and men and women ate and drank, 
and the hospitable board smoked, great trees are grow- 
ing. To this place did Flora Macdonald come and the 
prince — his head worth thirty thousand pounds — dressed 
in woman's clothes ; there they rested for the night, and 
departed next morning. And the sheets in which the 
wanderer slept were carefully put aside, and years after 
they became the shroud for the lady of the house. And 
the old shoes the prince wore were kept by Kingsburgh 
till his dying day, and after that a " zealous Jacobite 
gentleman " paid twenty guineas for the treasure. That 
love for the young Ascanius ! — the carnage of CuUoden, 
and noble blood reddening many scaffolds, could not wash 
it out. Fancy his meditations on all that devotion when 
an old besotted man in Rome, — the glitter of the crown 
of his ancestors faded utterly away out of his bleared 
and tipsy eyes ! And when Flora was mistress of it, 
to the same place came Boswell, and Johnson with a 
cold in his head. There the Doctor saluted Flora, and 
snivelled his compliments, and slept in the bed the prince 
occupied. There Boswell was in a cordial humor, and, 
as his fashion was, "promoted a cheerful glass." And 
all these people are ghosts and less. And, as I write, the 
wind is rising on Loch Snizort, and through the autumn 



FLORA MACDONALD AND DR. JOHNSON. 155 

rain the yellow leaves are falling on the places where the 
prince and the doctor and the toady sat. 

One likes to know that Pope saw Dry den sitting in 
the easy-chair near the fire at Will's Coffee-house, and 
that Scott met Burns at Adam Ferguson's. It is pleas- 
ant also to know that Doctor Johnson and Flora Mac- 
donald met. It was like the meeting of two widely- 
separated eras and orders of things. Fleet Street, and 
the Cuchullins with Ossianic mists on their crests, came 
face to face. It is pleasant also to know that the sage 
liked the lady, and the lady liked the sage. After the 
departure of the prince the arrival of Dr. Johnson wa-^ 
the next great event in Hebridean history. The Doctor 
came, and looked about him, and went back to London 
and wrote his book. Thereafter there was plenty of 
war ; and the Islesmen became soldiers, fighting in India, 
America, and the Peninsula. The tartans waved through 
the smoke of every British battle, and there were no 
such desperate bayonet charges as those which rushed to 
the yell of the bagpipe. At the close of the last and 
the beginning of the present century, half the farms in 
Skye were rented by half-pay officers. The Army List 
was to the island what the Post-office Directory is to 
London. Then Scott came into the Highlands with the 
whole world of tourists at his back. Then up through 
Skye came Dr. John M'Culloch, — caustic, censorious, 
epigrammatic, — and dire was the rage occasioned by the 
publication of his letters, — the rage of men especially who 
bad shown him hospitality and rendered him services, 
and who got their style of talk mimicked, and their house- 
hold procedures laughed at for their pains. Then came 
evictions, emigrations, and the potato failure. Every- 
thing is getting prosaic as we approach the present time. 



156 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

Then my friend Mr. Hutcheson established his magnifi- 
cent fleet of Highland steamers. While I write the iron 
horse is at Dingwall, and he will soon be at Kyleakin, — 
through which strait King Haco sailed seven centuries 
ago. In a couple of years or thereby Portree will be 
distant twenty-four hours from London, — that time the 
tourist will take in coming, that time black-faced mutton 
will take in going. 

Wandering up and down the Western Islands, one is 
brought into contact with Ossian, and is launched into 
a sea of perplexities as to the genuineness of Macpher- 
son's translation. That fine poems should have been 
composed in the Highlands so many centuries ago, and 
that these should have existed through that immense 
period of time in the memories and on the tongues of 
the common people, is sufficiently startling. The Border 
Ballads are children in their bloom compared with the 
hoary Ossianic legends and songs. On the other hand, 
the theory that Macpherson, whose literary efforts when 
he did not pretend to translate are extremely poor and 
meagre, should have, by sheer force of imagination, 
created poems confessedly full of fine things, with strong 
local coloring, not without a weird sense of remoteness, 
with heroes shadowy as if seen through Celtic mists: 
poems, too, which have been received by his countrymen 
as genuine; which Dr. Johnson scornfully abused, and 
which Dr. Blair enthusiastically praised; which have 
been translated into every language in Europe; which 
Goethe and Napoleon admired ; from which Carlyle has 
drawn his " red son of the furnace," and many a mem- 
orable sentence besides ; and over which, for more than 
a hundred years now, there has raged a critical and philo- 
logical battle, with victory inclining to neither side, — 



MACPHERSON'S " OSSIAN." 157 

that the poor Macpherson should have created these 
poems is, if possible, more startling than their claim of 
antiquity. If Macpherson created Ossian, he was an ath- 
lete who made one surprising leap and was palsied ever 
afterwards ; a marksman who made a centre alT his first 
shot, and who never afterwards could hit the target. It 
is well enough known that the Highlanders, like all half- 
civilized nations, had their legends and their minstrelsy, 
that they were fond of reciting poems and runes, and 
that the person who retained on his memory the greatest 
number of tales and songs brightened the gatherings 
round the ancient peat-fires as your Sidney Smith bright- 
ens the modern dinner. And it is astonishing how much 
legendary material a single memory may retain. In illus- 
tration, Dr. Brown, in his " History of the Highlands," 
informs us that "the late Captain John Macdonald of 
Breakish, a native of the Island of Skye, declared upon 
oath, at the age of seventy-eight, that he could repeat, 
when a boy between twelve and fifteen years of age, 
(about the year 1740,) from one to two hundred Gaelic 
poems, differing in length and in number of verses ; and 
that he learned them from an old man about eighty years 
of age, who sang them for years to his father when he 
went to bed at night, and in the spring and winter before 
he rose in the morning." The late Dr. Stuart, minister 
of Luss, knew " an old Highlander in the Isle of Skye, 
who repeated to him for three successive days, and during 
several hours each day, without hesitation, and with the 
utmost rapidity, many thousand lines of ancient poetry, 
and would have continued his repetitions much longer 
if the Doctor had required him to do so." From such a 
raging torrent of song the Doctor doubtless fled for his 
life. Without a doubt there was a vast quantity of 



158 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

poetic material existing in the islands. But, more than 
this, when Macpherson, at the request of Home, Blair, 
and others, went to the Highlands to collect materials, he 
undoubtedly received Gaelic MSS. Mr. Farquharson, 
(Dr. Brown tells us,) Prefect of Studies at Douay Col- 
lege in France, was the possessor of Gaelic MSS., and in 
1766 he received a copy of Macpherson's "Ossian," and 
Mr. M'Gillivray, a student there at the time, saw them 
(Macpherson's "Ossian" and Mr. Farquharson's MSS.) 
frequently collated, and heard the complaint that the 
translations fell very far short of the energy and beauty 
of the originals; and the said Mr. M'Gillivray was con- 
vinced that the MSS. contained all the poems translated 
by Macpherson, because he recollected very distinctly 
having heard Mr. Farquharson say, after having read 
the translations, " that he had all these poems in his col- 
lection." Dr. Johnson could never talk of the matter 
calmly. " Show me the original manuscripts," he would 
roar. " Let Mr. Macpherson deposit the manuscript in 
one of the colleges at Aberdeen where there are people 
who can judge ; and if the professors certify the authen- 
ticity, then there will be an end of the controversy." 
Macpherson, when his truthfulness was rudely called in 
question, wrapped himself up in proud silence, and dis- 
dained reply. At last, however, he submitted to the test 
which Dr. Johnson proposed. At a bookseller's shop he 
left for some months the originals of his translations, inti- 
mating by public advertisement that he had done so, and 
stating that all persons interested in the matter might 
call and examine them. No one, however, called. Mac- 
pherson's pride was hurt, and he became thereafter more 
obstinately silent and uncommunicative than ever. There 
needed no such mighty pother about the production of 



MACPHERSON'S " OSSIAN." 159 

manuscripts. It might have been seen at a glance that 
the Ossianic poems were not forgeries, — at all events, 
that Macpherson did not forge them. Even in the Eng- 
lish translation, to a great extent, the sentiments, the 
habits, the modes of thought described are entirely pri- 
meval; in reading it, we seem to breathe the morning 
air of the world. The personal existence of Ossian is, 
I suppose, as doubtful as the personal existence of 
Homer; and if he ever lived, he is great, like Homer, 
through his tributaries. Ossian drew into himself every 
lyrical runnel, he augmented himself in every way, he 
drained centuries of their songs ; and living an oral and 
gypsy life, handed down from generation to generation, 
without being committed to writing and having their out- 
lines determinately fixed, the authorship of these songs 
becomes vested in a multitude, every reciter having more 
or less to do with it. For centuries the floating legen- 
dary material was reshaped, added to, and altered by the 
changing spirit and emotion of the Celt. Reading the 
Ossianic fragments is like visiting the skeleton of one of 
the South American cities, — like walking through the 
streets of disinterred Pompeii or Herculaneum. These 
poems, if rude and formless, are touching and venerable 
as some ruin on the waste, the names of whose builders 
are unknown ; whose towers and walls, although not 
erected in accordance with the lights of modern archi- 
tecture, affect the spirit and fire the imagination far more 
than nobler and more recent piles; its chambers, now 
roofless to the day, were ages ago tenanted by life and 
death, joy and sorrow ; its walls have been worn and 
rounded by time, its stones channelled and fretted by the 
fierce tears of winter rains ; on broken arch and battle- 
ment every April for centuries has kindled a light of 



160 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

desert flowers ; and it stands muffled with ivies, bearded 
with mosses, and stained with lichens by the suns of for- 
gotten summers. So these songs are, in the original, 
strong, simple, picturesque in decay ; in Mr. Macpher- 
son's English they are hybrids and mongrels. They 
resemble the Castle of Dunvegan, — an amorphous mass 
of masonry of every conceivable style of architecture, in 
which the ninth centui:y jostles the nineteenth. 

In these poems not only do character and habit smack 
of the primeval time, but there is extraordinary truth of 
local coloring. The Iliad is roofed by the liquid softness 
of an Ionian sky. In the verse of Chaucer there is eter- 
nal May and the smell of newly-blossomed English haw- 
thorn hedges. In Ossian, in like manner, the skies are 
cloudy, there is a tumult of waves on the shore, the wind 
sings in the pine. This truth of local coloring is a strong 
argument in proof of authenticity. I for one will, never 
believe that Macpherson was more than a somewhat free 
translator. Despite Gibbon's sneer, I do " indulge the 
supposition that Ossian lived and Fingal sung"; and, 
more than this, it is my belief that these misty phantas- 
mal Ossianic fragments, with their car-borne heroes that 
come and go like clouds on the wind, their frequent ap- 
paritions, the " stars dim-twinkling through their forms," 
their maidens fair and pale as lunar rainbows, are, in 
their own literary place, worthy of every recognition. 
If you think these poems exaggerated, go out at Sligachan 
and see what wild work the pencil of moonlight makes 
on a mass of shifting vapor. Does that seem nature or 
a madman's dream ? Look at the billowy clouds rolling 
off the brow of Blaavin, all golden and on fire with the 
rising sun! Wordsworth's verse does not more com- 
pletely mirror the Lake Country than do the poems of 



MACPHERSON'S " OSSIAN." 161 

Ossian the terrible scenery of the Isles. Grim and fierce, 
and dreary as the night-wind is the strain, for not with 
rose and nightingale had the old bard to do ; but with 
the thistle waving on the ruin, the upright stones that 
mark the burying-places of heroes, weeping female faces 
white as sea-foam in the moon, the breeze mourning 
alone in the desert, the battles and friendships of his far- 
off youth, and the flight of the "dark-brown years." 
These poems are wonderful transcripts of Hebridean 
scenery. They are as full of mists as the Hebridean^ 
glens themselves. Ossian seeks his images in the 
vapory wraiths. Take the following of two chiefs 
parted by their king : — " They sink from their king on 
either side, like two columns of morning mist when the 
sun rises between. them on his glittering rocks. Dark is 
their rolling on either side, each towards its reedy pool." 
You cannot help admiring the image ; and I saw the 
misty circumstance this very morning when the kingly 
sun struck the earth with his golden spear, and the 
cloven mists rolled backwards to their pools like guilty 
things. 

That a large body of poetical MSS. existed in the 
Highlands we know; we know also that, when chal- 
lenged to do so, Macpherson produced his originals; 
and the question arises. Was Macpherson a competent 
and faithful translator of these MSS.? Did he repro- 
duce the original in all its strength and sharpness ? On 
the whole, perhaps Macpherson translated the ancient 
Highland poems as faithfully as Pope translated Homer, 
but his version is in many respects defective and untrue. 
The English Ossian is Macpherson's, just as the most 
popular English Iliad is Pope's. Macpherson was not 
a thoroughly-equipped Gaelic scholar ; his version is full 



162 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

of blunders and misapprehensions of meaning, and he 
expressed himself in the fashionable poetic verbiage of 
his day. You find echoes of Milton, Shakespeare, Pope, 
and Dryden, and these echoes give his whole perform- 
ance a hybrid aspect. It has a particolored look ; is a 
thing of odds and ends, of shreds and patches ; in it 
antiquity and his own day are incongruously mixed, — 
like Macbeth in a periwig, or a ruin decked out with new 
and garish banners. Here is Macphersou's version of a 
portion of the third book of Fin gal : — 

" Fingal beheld the son of Starno ; he remembered 
Agandecca. For Swaran with the tears of youth had 
mourned his white-bosomed sister. He sent Ullin of 
Songs to bid him to the feast of shells. For pleasant on 
Fingal's soul returned the memory of the first of his 
loves ! 

" Ullin came with aged steps, and spoke to Starno's 
son. ' O thou that dwellest afar, surrounded like a rock 
with thy waves ! Come to the feast of the king, and pass 
the day in rest. To-morrow let us fight, Swaran, and 
break the echoing shields.' 'To-day,' said Starno's 
wrathful son, ' we break the echoing shields : to-morrow 
my feast shall be spread ; but Fingal shall lie on earth.' 
' To-morrow let the feast be spread,' said Fingal, with a 
smile. ' To-day, O my sons, we shall break the echoing 
shields. Ossian, stand thou near my arm. Gaul, lift 
thy terrible sword. Fergus, bend thy crooked yew. 
Throw, Fillan, thy lance through heaven. Lift your 
shields like the darkened moon. Be your spears the 
meteors of death. Follow me in the path of my fame. 
Equal my deeds in battle.' 

" As a hundred winds on Morven ; as the streams of 
a hundred hills; as clouds fly successive over heaven; 



MACPHERSON'S " OSSIAN." 1G3 

as the dark ocean assails the shore of the desert; so 
roaring, so vast, so terrible the armies mixed on Lena's 
echoing heath. The groan of the people spread over the 
hills ; it was like the thunder of night when the clouds 
burst on Cona, and a thousand ghosts shriek at once on 
the hollow wind. Fingal rushed on in his strength, ter- 
rible as the spirit of Trenmore, when in a whirlwind he 
comes to Morven to see the children of his pride. Tlse 
oaks resound on their mountains, and the rocks fall down 
before him. Dimly seen as lightens the night, he strides 
largely from hill to hill. Bloody was the hand of my 
father when he whirled the gleam of his sword. He re- 
membered the battles of his youth. The field is wasted 
in the course. 

"Ryno went on like a pillar of fire. Dark is the 
brow of Gaul. Fergus rushed forward with feet of 
wind. Fillan, like the mist of the hill. Ossian, like 
a rock, came down. I exulted in the strength of the 
king. Many were the deaths of my arm ! dismal the 
gleam of my sword ! My locks were not then so 
gray ; nor trembled my hands with age. My eyes 
were not closed in darkness; my feet failed not in the 
race. 

" Who can relate the deaths of the people, who the 
deeds of mighty heroes, when Fingal, burning in his 
wrath, consumed the sons of Lochlin ? Groans swelled 
on groans from hill to hill, till night had covered all. 
Pale, staring like a herd of deer, the sons of Lochlin 
convene on Lena." 

So writes Macpherson. I subjoin a more literal and 
faithful rendering of the passage, in which, to some 
extent, may be tasted the wild-honey flavor of the 
original : — 



164 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

" Fingal descried the illustrious son of Starn, 
And he remember'd the maiden of the snow: 
When she fell, Swaran wept 
For the young maid of brightest cheek. 

"Ullin of songs (the bard) approach'd 
To bid him to the feast upon the shore. 
Sweet to the king of the great mountains 
Was the remembrance of his first-loved maid. 

" Ullin of the most aged step (the step of feeblest age) came nigh, 
And thus addressed the son of Starn : 
' Thou from the land afar, thou brave, 
Like, in thy mail and thy arms, 
To a rock in the midst of the billows, 
Come to the banquet of the chiefs ; 
Pass the day of calm in feasting ; 
To-morrow ye shall break the shields 
In the strife where play the spears.' 

" ' This very day,' said the son of Starn, ' this very day 
I shall break in the hill the spear; 
To-morrow thy king shall be low in the dust, 
And Swaran and his braves shall banquet.' 

" ' To-morrow let the hero feast,' 
Smiling said the king of Morven ; 
* To-day let us fight the battle in the hill. 
And break the mighty shield. 
Ossian, stand thou by my side ; 
Gall, thou great one, lift thy hand ; 
Fergus, draw thy swift-speeding string; 
Fillan, throw thy matchless lance; 
Lift your shields aloft 
As the moon in shadow in the sky ; 
Be your spears as the herald of death. 
Follow, follow me in my renown ; 
Be as hosts (as hundreds) in the conflict.' 

" As a hundred winds in the oak of Morven; 
As a hundred streams from the steep-sided mountain; 
As clouds gathering thick and black ; 
As the great ocean pouring on the shore, 
So broad, roaring, dark and fierce, 
Met the braves, a-fire, on Lena. 



MACPHERSON'S " OSSIAN." 165 

The shout of the hosts on the shoulders (bones) of the mountains 
Was as a torrent in a night of storm 
When bursts the cloud on glenny Cona, 
And a thousand ghosts are shrieking loud 
On the viewless crooked wind of the cairns. 

" Swiftly the king advanced in his might, 
As the spirit of Trenmore, pitiless spectre, 
When he comes in the whirl-blast of the billows 
To Morven, the land of his loved sires. 
The oak resounds on the mountain, 
Before him falls the rock of the hills; 
Through the lightning-flash the spirit is seen — 
His great steps are from cairn to cairn. 

" Bloody, I ween, was my sire in the field, 
When he drew with might his sword ; 
The king remember'd his youth. 
When he fought the combat of the glens. 

*' Ryno sped as the fire of the sky, 
Gloomy and black was Gall, (wholly black;) 
Fergus rushed as the wind on the mountain j 
Fillan advanced as the mist on the woods ; 
Ossian was as a pillar of rock in the combat. 
My soul exulted in the king. 
Many were the deaths and dismal 
'Neath the lightning of my great sword in the strife. 

" My locks were not then so gray, 
Nor shook my hand with age. 
The light of my eye was unquenched. 
And aye unwearied in travel was my foot. 

" Who will tell of the deaths of the people ? 
Who the deeds of the mighty chiefs ? 
When kindled to wrath was the king ; 
Lochlin was consumed on the side of the mountain. 
Sound on sound rose from the hosts, 
Till fell on the waves the night. 
Feeble, trembling, and pale as (hunted) deer, 
Lochlin gather' d on heath-clad Lena." * 

* For this translation I am indebted to my learned and accom- 
plished friend the Rev. Mr. Macpherson of Inverary. 



166 A SUM]\IER IN SKYE. 

To English readers the sun of Ossian shines dimly- 
through a mist of verbiage. It is to be hoped that 
the mist will one day be removed, — it is the boimden 
duty of one of Ossian's learned countrymen to remove it. 

It is not to be supposed that the Ossianic legends are 
repeated often now around the island peat-fires; but 
many are told resembling in essentials those which Dr. 
Dasent has translated to us from the Norse. As the 
northern nations have a common flora, so they have a 
common legendary literature. Supernaturalism belongs 
to their tales as the aurora borealis belongs to their skies. 
Those stories I have heard in Skye, and many others, 
springing from the same roots, I have had related to me 
in the Lowlands and in Ireland. They are full of 
witches and wizards ; of great wild giants crying out, 
" Hiv ! Haw Hoagraich ! It is a drink of thy blood that 
quenches my thirst this night " ; of wonderful castles with 
turrets and banqueting halls ; of magic spells, and the 
souls of men and women dolefully imprisoned in shapes 
of beast and bird. As tales few of them can be con- 
sidered perfect; the supernatural element is strong in 
many, but frequently it breaks down under some prosaic 
or ludicrous circumstance: the spell exhales somehow, 
and you care not to read further. Now and then a spirit- 
ual and ghastly imagination passes into a revolting famil- 
iarity and destroys itself. In these stories all times and 
conditions of life are curiously mixed, and this mixture 
shows the passage of the story from tongue to tongue 
through generations. If you discover on the bleak Skye 
shore a log of wood with Indian carvings peeping 
through a crust of native barnacles, it needs no prophet 
to see that it has crossed the Atlantic. Confining your 
attention merely to Skye, — to the place in which the 



SKYE LEGEXr)S. 167 

log is found, — the Indian carvings are an anachronism ; 
but there is no anachronism when you arrive at the idea 
that the I02; belongs to another continent, and that it has 
reached its final resting-place through blowing winds and 
tossing waves. These old Highland stories, beginning in 
antiquity, and quaintly ending with a touch of the present, 
are lessons in the science of criticism. In a ballad the 
presence of an anachronism, the cropping out of a com- 
paratively modern touch of manners or detail of dress, 
does not in the least invalidate the claim of the ballad 
to antiquity, — provided it can be proved that before 
being committed to writing it had led an oral- existence. 
Every ballad existing in the popular memory takes the 
color of the periods through which it has lived, just as 
a stream takes the color of the different soils through 
which it flows. The other year Mr. Robert Chambers 
attempted to throw discredit on the alleged antiquity of 
Sir Patrick Spens from the following verse : — 

" Oh, laith, laith M'ere our guid Scots lords 
To weet their cork-heel'd shoon; 
But laiig ere a' the play was o'er, 
They wat their heads abune," — 

cork-heeled shoes having been worn neither by the Scots 
lords, nor by the lords of any other nation, so early as 
the reign of Alexander III., at which period Sir Patrick 
Spens sailed on his disastrous voyage. But the appear- 
ance of such a comparatively modem detail of personal 
attire throws no discredit on the antiquity of the ballad, 
because in its oral transmission each singer or reciter 
would naturally equip the Scots lords in the particular 
kind of shoes which the Scots lords wore in his own day. 
Anachronism of this kind proves nothing, because such 
anachronism is involved in the very nature of the case, 
and must occur in every old composition which is fre- 



168 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

quently recited, and the terms of which have not been 
definitely fixed by writing. In the old Highland stories 
to which I allude, the wildest anachronisms are of the 
most frequent occurrence ; with the most utter scorn of 
historical accuracy all the periods are jumbled together: 
they resemble the dance on the outside stage of a booth 
at a country fair before the performances begin, in which 
the mailed crusader. King Richard III., a barmaid, and 
a modern "swell" meet, and mingle, and cross hands 
with the most perfect familiarity and absence from sur- 
prise. And some of those violations of historical accu- 
racy are instructive enough, and throw some light on 
the cork-heeled shoes of the Scots lords in the ballad. 
In one story a mermaiden and a General in the British 
army are represented as in love with each other and 
holding clandestine meetings. Here is an anachronism 
with a vengeance, enough to make Mr. Robert Chambers 
stare and gasp. How would he compute the age of that 
story? Would he make it as old as the mermaiden or 
as modern as the British General ? Personally, I have 
not the slightest doubt that the story is old, and that in 
its original form it concerned itself with certain love 
passages between a mermaiden and a great warrior. But 
the story lived for generations as tradition, was told 
around the Skye peat-fires, and each relater gave it 
something of his own, some touch drawn from contem- 
porary life. The mermaiden remains of course, for she 
is sui generis ; search nature and for her you can find 
no equivalent : you can't translate her into anything else. 
With the warrior it is entirely different ; he loses spear 
and shield, and grows naturally into the modern General 
with gilded spur, scarlet coat, and cocked hat with plumes. 
The same sort of change, arising from the substitution 
of modern for ancient details, of modern equivalents for 



SKYE LEGENDS. 169 

ancient facts, must go on in every song or narrative 
which is orally transmitted from generation to generation. 
Many of these stories, even when they are imperfect 
in themselves, or resemble those told elsewhere, are curi- 
ously colored by Celtic scenery and pervaded by Celtic 
imagination. In listening to them, one is specially im- 
pressed by a bare, desolate, woodless country ; and this 
impression is not produced by any formal statement of 
fact ; it arises partly from the paucity of actors in the 
stories, and partly from the desert spaces over which the 
actors travel, and partly from the number of carrion 
crows, and ravens, and malign hill-foxes which they en- 
counter in their journeyings. The " hoody," as the crow 
is called, hops and flits and croaks through all the stories. 
His black wing is seen everywhere. And it is the fre- 
quent appearance of these beasts and birds, never famil- 
iar, never domesticated, always outside the dwelling, and 
of evil omen when they fly or steal across the path, 
which gives to the stories much of their weird and 
direful character. The Celt has not yet subdued na- 
ture. He trembles before the unknown powers. He 
cannot be sportive for the fear that is in his heart. In 
his legends there is no merry Puck, no Ariel, no 
Robin Goodfellow, no half-benevolent, half-malignant 
Brownie even. These creatures live in imaginations 
more emancipated from fear. The mists blind the Celt 
on his perilous mountain-side, the sea is smitten white 
on his rocks, the wind bends and dwarfs his pine wood ; 
and as Nature is cruel to him, and as his light and 
heat are gathered from the moor, and his most plente- 
ous food from the whh-lpool and the foam, we need not 
be surprised that few are the gracious shapes that haunt 
his fancy. 



170 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 



THE SECOND SIGHT. 

THE Quirang is one of the wonderful sights of Skye, 
and if you once visit it you will believe ever after- 
wards the misty and spectral Ossian to be authentic. 
The Quirang is a nightmare of nature ; it resembles one 
of Nat Lee's mad tragedies ; it might be the scene of a 
Walpurgis night ; on it might be held a Norway witch's 
Sabbath. Architecture is frozen music, it is said; the 
Quirang is frozen terror and superstition. 'T is a huge 
spire or cathedral of rock some thousand feet in height, 
with rocky spires or needles sticking out of it. Mac- 
beth's weird sisters stand on the blasted heath, and Qui- 
rang stands in a region as wild as itself. The country 
around is strange and abnormal, rising into rocky ridges 
here, like the spine of some huge animal, sinking into 
hollows there, with pools in the hollows, — glimmering 
almost always through drifts of misty rain. On a clear 
day, with a bright sun above, the ascent of Quirang may 
be pleasant enough ; but a clear day you seldom find, for 
on spectral precipices and sharp-pointed rocky needles, 
the weeping clouds of the Atlantic have made their 
chosen home. When you ascend, with every ledge and 
block slippery, every runnel a torrent, the wind taking 
liberties with your cap and making your plaid stream 
like a meteor to the troubled air, white tormented mists 
boiling up from black chasms and caldrons, rain making 
disastrous twilight of noonday, horror shoots through 
your pulses, your brain swims on the giddy pathway, and 



THE SAXON AND THE CELT. 171 

the thought of your room in the vapory under world 
rushes across the soul like the fallen Adam's remem- 
brance of his paradise. Then you learn, if you never 
learned before, that Nature is not always gracious ; that 
not always does she outstretch herself in low-lying 
bounteous lands, over which sober sunsets redden, and 
heavy-uddered cattle low ; but that she has fierce hysteri- 
cal moods in which she congeals into granite precipice 
and peak, and draws around herself and her companions 
the winds that moan and bluster, veils of livid rains. If 
you are an Englishman you will habitually know her in 
her gracious, if a Skye man in her fiercer, moods. 

No one is independent of scenery and climate. Men 
are racy of the soil in which they grow, even as grapes 
are. A Saxon nurtured in fat Kent or Sussex, amid 
flats of heavy wheat and acorn-dropping oaks, must of 
necessity be a different creature from the Celt who 
gathers his sustenance from the bleak sea-board, and who 
is daily drenched by the rain-cloud from Cuchullin. The 
one, at his best, becomes a broad-shouldered, clear-eyed, 
ruddy-faced man, slightly obese, who meets danger glee- 
fully, because he has had little experience of it, and be- 
cause his conditions being hitherto easy, he naturally 
assumes that everything will go well with him ; — at 
worst, a porker contented with his mast. The other, 
take him at his best, of sharper spirit, because it has 
been more keenly whetted on difficulty; if not more 
intrepid, at least more consciously so ; of sadder mood 
habitually, but ivhen happy, happier, as the gloomier the 
cloud the more dazzling the rainbow; — at his worst, 
either beaten down, subdued, and nerveless, or gaunt, 
suspicious, and crafty, like the belly-pinched wolf. On 
the whole, the Saxon is likely to be the more sensual ; 



172 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

the Celt the more superstitious ; the Saxon will probably 
be prosaic, dwelling in the circle of the seen and the 
tangible ; the Celt a poet : while the anger of the Saxon 
is slow and abiding, like the burning of coal, the anger 
of the Celt is swift and transient, like the flame that con- 
sumes the dried heather; both are superior to death 
when occaSjion comes, — the Saxon from a grand obtuse- 
ness which ignores the fact ; the Celt, because he has 
been in constant communion with it, and because he has 
seen, measured, and overcome it. The Celt is the most 
melancholy of men ; he has turned everything to super- 
stitious uses, and every object of nature, even the unrea- 
soning dreams of sleep, are mirrors which flash back 
death upon him. He, the least of all men, requires to 
be reminded that he is mortal. The howling of his dog 
will do him that service. 

In the stories which are told round the island peat- 
fires, it is abundantly apparent that the Celt has not yet 
subdued nature. In these stories you can detect a curi- 
ous subtle hostility between man and his environments, — 
a fear of them, a want of absolute trust in them. In 
these stories and songs man is not at home in the world. 
Nature is too strong for him ; she rebukes and crushes 
him. The Elements, however calm and beautiful they 
may appear for the moment, are malign and deceitful at 
heart, and merely bide their time. They are like the 
paw of the cat, — soft and velvety, but with concealed 
talons that scratch when least expected. And this curi- 
ous relation between man and nature grows out of the 
climatic conditions and the forms of Hebridean life. In 
his usual avocations the Islesman rubs clothes with death 
as he would with an acquaintance. Gathering wild-fowl, 
he hangs, like a spider on its thread, over a precipice on 



THE SECOND SIGHT. ^ 173 

which the sea is beating a hundred feet beneath. In his 
crazy boat he adventures into whirlpool and foam. He 
is among the hills when the snow comes down, making 
everything unfamiliar, and stifling the strayed wanderer. 
Thus death is ever near him, and that consciousness turns 
everything to omen. The mist creeping along the hill- 
side by moonlight is an apparition. In the roar of the 
waterfall or the murmur of the swollen ford he hears the 
water spirit calling out for the man for whom it has 
waited so long. He sees death-candles burning on the 
sea, marking the place at which a boat will be upset by 
some sudden squall. He hears spectral hammers clink- 
ing in an outhouse, and he knows that ghostly artificers 
are preparing a coffin there. Ghostly fingers tap at his 
window, ghostly feet are about hiis door ; at midnight his 
furniture cries out as if it had seen a sight and could 
not restrain itself. Even his dreams are prophetic, and 
point ghastly issues for himself or for others. And just 
as there are poets who are more open to beauty than 
other men, and whose duty and delight it is to set forth 
that beauty anew, so in the Hebrides there are seers who 
bear the same relation to the other world that the poet 
bears to hea^j, who are cognizant of its secrets, and 
who make those secrets known. The seer does not in- 
herit his power. It comes upon him at haphazard, as 
genius or as personal beauty might come. He is a lonely 
man amongst his fellows; apparitions cross his path at 
noonday ; he never knows into what a ghastly something 
the commonest object may transform itself, — the table 
he sits at may suddenly become the resting-place of a 
coffin ; and the man who laughs in his cups with him 
may, in the twinkling of an eye, wear a death-shroud up 
to his throat. He hears river voices prophesying death, 



174 , A SUMMER m SKYE. 

and shadowy and silent funeral processions are continu- 
ally defiling before him. When the seer beholds a vision 
his companions know it ; for " the inner part of his eye- 
lids turn so far upwards that, after the object disappears, 
he must draw them down with his fingers, and sometimes 
employs others to draw them down, which he finds to be 
much the easier way." From long experience of these 
visions, and by noticing how closely or tardily fulfilment 
has trodden upon their heels, the seer can extract the 
meaning of the apparition that flashes upon him, and pre- 
dict the period of its accomplishment. Other people can 
make nothing of them ; but he reads them, as the sailor 
in possession of the signal-book reads the signal flying at 
the peak of the High Admiral. These visions, it would 
appear, conform to rules, like everything else. If a vis- 
ion be seen early in a morning, it will be accomplished in 
a few hours ; if at noon, it will usually be accomplished 
that day ; if in the evening, that night ; if after candles 
are lighted, certainly that night. When a shroud is seen 
about a person, it is a sure prognostication of death. 
And the period of death is estimated by the height of 
the shroud about the body. If it lies about the legs, 
death is not to be expected before the expiry of a year, 
and perhaps it may be deferred a few months longer. If 
it is seen near the head, death will occur in a few days, 
perhaps in a few hours. To see houses and trees in a 
desert place is a sign that buildings will be erected there 
anon. To see a spark of fire falling on the arms or 
breast of a person, is the sign that a dead child will 
shortly be in the arms of those persons. To see a seat 
empty at the time of sitting in it is a sign of that per- 
son's death being at hand. The seers are said to be 
extremely temperate in habit, — they are neither drunk- 



THE SECOND SIGHT. 175 

ards nor gluttons ; they are not subject to convulsions nor 
hysterical fits ; there are no madmen amongst them ; nor 
has a seer ever been known to commit suicide. 

The literature of the second sight is extremely curi- 
ous. The writers have perfect faith in the examples they 
adduce ; but their examples are far from satisfactory. 
They are seldom obtained at first hand, — they almost 
always live on hearsay ; and even if everything be true, 
the professed fulfilment seems nothing other than a rather 
singular coincidence. Still these stories are devoutly 
believed in Skye, and it is almost as perilous to doubt 
the existence of a Skyeman's ghost as to doubt the exist- 
ence of a Skyeman's ancestor. In " Treatises on the 
Second Sight," very curious tracts, compiled by Theophi- 
lus Insulanus, Rev. Mr. Frazer, Mr. Martin, and John 
Aubrey, Esq., F. R. S., and which hint that a disbelief in 
apparitions is tantamount to disbelief in the immortality 
of the soul, the following stories are related : — 

"John Campbell, younger, of Ardsliguish, in Ardna- 
morchuann, in the year 1729, returning home with Dun- 
can Campbell, his brother, since deceased, as they drew 
near the house, in a plain surrounded with bushes of 
wood, where they intended to discharge their fusees at 
a mark, observed a young girl, whom they knew to be 
one of their domestics, crossing the plain ; and having 
called her by name, she did not answer, but ran into the 
thicket. As the two brothers had been sonde days froin 
home, and willing to know what happened in their ab- 
sence, the youngest, John, pursued after, but could not 
find her. Immediately, as they arrived at home, having 
acquamted their mother they saw the said girl, and called 
after her, but she avoided their search, and would not 
speak to them ; upon which they were told she departed 



176 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

this life that same day. I had this relation from James 
Campbell in Girgudale, a young man of known modesty 
and candor, who had the story at several times .from the 
said John Campbell." 

"Mr. Anderson assured me, that upon the 16th of 
April, 1746, (being the day on which his Eoyal High- 
ness the Duke of Cumberland obtained a glorious victory 
over the rebels at Culloden,) as he lay in bed with his 
spouse towards the dawning of the day, he heard very 
audibly a voice at his bed-head inquiring if he was 
awake ; who answered he was, but then took no further 
notice of it. A little time thereafter, the voice repeated, 
with greater vehemence, if he was awake. And he 
answering, as formerly, he was, there was some stop, 
when the voice repeated louder, asking the same ques- 
tion, and he making the same answer, but asking what 
the voice had to say ; upon which it replied. The prince 
is defeated, defeated, defeated ! And in less than forty- 
eight hours thereafter an express carried the welcome 
tidings of the fact into the country." 

" Captain Macdonald of Castletown (allowed by all his 
acquaintances to be a person of consummate integrity) 
informed me that a Knoydart man (being on board of a 
vessel at anchor in the sound of the Island Oransay) 
went under night out of the cabin to the deck, and being 
missed by his company, some of them went to call him 
down ; but not finding him, concluded that he had dropt 
from the ship's side. When day came on, they got a 
long line furnished with hooks, (from a tenant's house 
close by the shore,) which having cast from the ship's 
side, some of the hooks got hold of his clothes, so that 
they got the corpse taken up. The owner of the long 
line told Captain Macdonald that for a quarter of a year 



THE SECOND SIGHT. 177 

before that accident happened, he himself and his domes- 
tics, on every calm night, would hear lamentable cries at 
the shore where the corpse was lauded ; and not only so, 
but the long lines that took up the corpse being hung on 
a pin in his house, all of them would hear an odd jingling 
of the hooks before and after going to bed, and that with- 
out any person, dog, or cat touching them j and at other 
times, with firelight, see the long lines covered over 
with lucid globules, such as are seen drop from oars row- 
ing under ni^ht." 

The foregoing are examples of the general super- 
stitions that prevail in the islands ; those that follow 
relate to the second sight. 

"The Lady Coll informed me that one M'Lean of 
Knock, an elderly reputable gentleman, living on their 
estate, as he walked in the fields before sunset, saw a 
neighboring person, who had been sick for a long time, 
coming that way, accompanied by another man ; and, as 
they drew nearer, he asked them some questions, and how 
far they intended to go. The first answered they were 
to travel forward to a village he named, and then pur- 
sued his journey with a more than ordinary pace. Next 
day, early in the morning, he was invited to his neigh- 
bor's interment, which surprised him much, as he had 
seen and spoke with him the evening before ; but was 
told by the messenger that came for him, the deceased 
person had been confined to his bed for seven weeks, 
and that he departed this life a little before sunset, much 
about the time he saw him in a vision the preceding 
day." 

"Margaret Macleod, an honest woman advanced in 
years, informed me that when she was a young woman 
in the family of Grishornish, a dairy-maid, who daily 

8* L 



178 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

used to herd the calves in a park close to the house, oh- 
served, at different times, a woman resembling herself 
in shape and attire, walking solitarily at no great dis- 
tance from her ; and being surprised at the apparition, 
to make further trial, she put the back part of her gar- 
ment foremost, and anon the phantom was dressed in the 
same manner, which made her uneasy, believing it por- 
tended some fatal consequence to herself. In a short 
time thereafter she was seized with a fever, which 
brought her to her end ; but before her sickness, and on 
her deathbed, declared this second sight to several." 

" Neil Betton, a sober, judicious person, and elder in 
the session of Diurinish, informed me, as he had it from 
the deceased Mr. Kenneth Betton, late minister in Trot- 
ternish, that a farmer in the village of Airaidh, on the 
west side of the country, being towards evening to quit 
his work, he observed a traveller coming towards him as 
he stood close to the highway ; and, as he knew the man, 
waited his coming up ; but when he began to speak with 
him, the traveller broke oflf the road abruptly to the shore 
that was hard by ; which, how soon he entered, he gave 
a loud cry ; and, having proceeded on the shore, gave a 
loud cry at the middle of it, and so went on until he 
came to a river running through the middle of it, which 
he no sooner entered than he gave a third cry, and then 
saw him no more. On the farmer's coming home he 
told all that he had heard and seen to those of his house- 
hold; so the story spread, until from hand to hand it 
came to the person's own knowledge, who, having seen 
the farmer afterwards, inquired of him narrowly about it, 
who owned and told the same as above. In less than a 
year thereafter, the same man, going with two more to 
cut wattling for creels, in Coillena-Skiddil, he and they 



DEATH SIGHTS AND OMENS. 179 

were drowned in the river where he heard him give the 
last cry." 

" Some of the inhabitants of HaiTis sailing round the 
Isle of Skye, with a design to go to the opposite main- 
land, were strangely surprised with an apparition of two 
men hanging down by the ropes that secured the mast, 
but could not conjecture what it meant. They pursued 
the voyage ; but the wind turned contrary, and so forced 
them into Broadford, in the Isle of Skye, where they 
found Sir Donald Macdonald keeping a sheriff's court, 
and two criminals receiving sentence of death there. 
The ropes and masts of that very boat were made use 
of to hang those criminals." 

Such are some of the stories laboriously gathered 
together and set down in perfect good faith by Theophi- 
lus Insulanus. It will be seen that they are loosely re- 
ported, are always at second or third hand, and that, if 
the original teller of the stories could be placed in the 
witness-box, a strict cross-examination would make sad 
havoc with him and them. But although sufficiently 
ridiculous and foolish in themselves, they exemplify the 
strange ghostly atmosphere which pervades the western 
islands. Every one of the people amongst whom I now 
live believes in apparitions and the second sight. Mr. 
MTan has seen a ghost himself, but he will not willingly 
speak about it. A woman gifted with the second sight 
dwells in one of the smoking turf huts on the shore. At 
night, round a precipitous rock that overhangs the sea, 
about a hundred yards from the house, a Hght was often 
seen to glide, and evil was apprehended. For years the 
patient light abode there. At last a boy, the son of one 
of the cotters, climbing about the rock, missed his footing, 
fell into the sea and was drowned, and from that hour 



180 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

the light was never more visible. At a ford up amongst 
the hills, the people tell me doleful cries have been heard 
at intervals for years. The stream has waited long for 
its victim, but I am assured that it will get it at last. 
That a man will yet be drowned there is an article of 
faith amongst the cotters. But who ? I suspect / am 
regarded as the likely person. Perhaps the withered 
crone down in the turf hut yonder knows the fea- 
tures of the doomed man. This prevailing superstitious 
feeling takes curious possession of one somehow. You 
cannot live in a ghostly atmosphere without being more 
or less affected by it. Lying abed you don't Hke to hear 
the furniture of your bedroom creak. At sunset you are 
suspicious of the prodigious shadow that stalks alongside 
of you across the gold-green fields. You become more 
than usually impressed by the multitudinous and un- 
known voices of the night. Gradually you get the idea 
that you and nature are alien ; and it is in that feeling 
of alienation that superstition lives. 

Father M'Crimmon and I had been out rabbit-shooting, 
and, tired of the sport, we sat down to rest on a grassy 
knoll. The ghostly island stories had taken possession 
of my mind, and as we sat and smoked I inquired if the 
priest was a believer in ghosts generally and in the 
second sight in particular. The gaunt, solemn-voiced, 
melancholy-eyed man replied that he believed in the 
existence of ghosts just as he believed in the exist- 
ence of America, — he had never seen America, he had 
never seen a ghost; but the existence of both he con- 
sidered was amply borne out by testimony. "I know 
there is such a thing as the second sight," he went on, 
"because I have had cognizance of it myself. Six or 
seven years ago I was staying with my friend Mr. M'lan, 



FATHER M'CRBIMON'S STORY. 181 

as I am staying now, and just as we were sipping a 
tumbler of punch after dinner, we heard a great uproar 
outside. We went out and found all the farm-servants 
standing on the grass and gazing seawards. On inquiry, 
we learned that two brothers, M'Millan by name, who 
lived down at Stonefield, beyond the point yonder, fisher- 
men by trade, and well versed in the management of a 
boat, had come up to the islands here to gather razor-fish 
for bait. When they had secured plenty of bait, they 
steered for home, although a stiff breeze was blowing. 
They kept a full sail on, and went straight on the wind. 
A small boy. Hector, who was employed in herding cows, 
was watching the boat trying to double the point. All 
at once he came running into the kitchen where the farm- 
servants were at dinner. * Men, men,' he cried, * come 
out fast ; M'lVIillan's boat is sinking, — I saw her heel 
over.' Of course the hinds came rushing out bareheaded, 
and it was the noise they made that disturbed my friend 
and myself at our punch. All this we gathered in less 
time than I have taken to tell you. We looked narrowly 
seaward, but no boat was to be seen. IVIr. MTan brought 
out his telescope, and still the sea remained perfectly 
blue and bare. Neither M'lan nor his servants could be 
brought to believe Hector's story, — they thought it ex- 
tremely unlikely that on a comparatively calm day any 
harm could befall such experienced sailors. It was uni- 
versally agreed that the boat had rounded the point, and 
Mr. M'lan rated the herd-boy for raising a false alarm. 
Hector still persisting that he had seen the boat capsize 
and go down, got his ears soundly boxed for his obsti- 
nacy, and was sent whimpering away to his cows, and 
enjoined in future to mind his own business. Then the 
servants returned to their dinner in the kitchen, and, 



182 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

going back with me to our punch, which had become 
somewhat cold, Mr. M'lan resumed his story of the 
eagle that used to come down the glen in the early morn- 
ings and carry away his poultry, and told how he shot it 
at last, and found that it measured six feet from wing-tip 
to wing-tip. 

" But, although Hector got his ears boxed, it turned 
out that he had in all probability spoken the truth. To- 
wards the evening of next day the M'Millan sisters came 
up to the house to inquire after the boat, which had 
never reached home. The poor girls were in a dreadful 
state when they were told that their brother's boat had 
left the islands the previous afternoon, and what Hector 
the cowherd avowed he had seen. Still there was room 
for hope : it was possible that Hector was mistaken ; it 
was possible that the M'Millans might have gone some- 
where, or been forced to take shelter somewhere ; — and 
so the two sisters, mustering up the best heart they could, 
went across the hill to Stonefield when the sun was set- 
ting, and the sea a sheet of gold leaf, and looking as it 
could never be angry or have the heart to drown any- 
thing. 

" Days passed, and the boat never came home, nor did 
the brothers. It was on Friday that the M'Millans sailed 
away on the fresh breeze, and on the Wednesday follow- 
ing the bay down there was a sorry sight-. The missing 
sailors were brave, good-looking, merry-hearted, and were 
liked along the whole coast; and on the Wednesday I 
speak of no fewer than two hundred and fifty boats were 
sailing slowly up and down, crossing and recrossing, traw- 
ling for the bodies. I remember the day perfectly. It 
was dull and sultry, with but little sunshine ; the hills 
over there (Blaavin and the others) were standing dimly 



FATHER M'CRIMMON'S STORY. 183 

in a smoke of heat ; and on tlie smooth pallid sea the 
mournful multitude of black boats were moving slowly 
up and down, across and back again. In each boat two 
men pulled, and the third sat in the stern with the trawl- 
ing-irons. The day was perfectly still, and I could hear 
through the heated air the solemn pulses of the oars. 
The bay was black with the slowly-crawling boats. A 
sorry sight," said the good priest, filling his second pipe 
from a tobacco-pouch made of otter's skin. 

" I don't know how it was," went on the Father, hold- 
ing his newly-filled pipe between his forefinger and 
thumb; "but looking on the black dots of boats, and 
hearing the sound of their oars, I remembered that old 
Mirren, who lived in one of the turf huts yonder, had 
the second sight ; and so I thought I would go down and 
see her. When I got to the hut, I met Mirren coming 
up from the shore with a basket full of whelks, which 
she had been gathering for dinner. I went into the hut 
along with her and sat down. * There 's a sad business 
in the bay to-day,' said I. ' A sad business,' said Mirren, 
as she laid down her basket. ' Will they get the bodies?' 
Mirren shook her head. 'The bodies are not there to 
get ; they have floated out past Rum to the main ocean.' 
' How do you know ? ' ' Going out to the shore about 
a month ago I heard a scream, and looking up saw a 
boat off the point, with two men in it, caught in a squall, 
and going down. When the boat sank the men still 
remained in it, — the one entangled in the fishing-net, 
the other in the ropes of the sails. I saw them float out 
to the main sea between the two wines,' — that 's a literal 
translation," said the Father, parenthetically. " You have 
seen two liquors in a glass, the one floating on the top 
of the other ? Very well ; there are two currents in the 



184 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

sea, and when my people wish to describe anything sink- 
ing down and floating between these two currents, they 
use the image of two liquors in a wine-glass. 0, it 's a 
fine language the Gaelic, and admirably adapted for po- 
etical purposes, — but to return. Mirren told me that 
she saw the bodies float out to sea between the two wines, 
and that the trawling-boats might trawl forever in the 
bay before they would get what they wanted. When 
evening came, the boats returned home without having 
found the bodies of the drowned M'Millans. Well," — 
and here the Father lighted his pipe, — " six weeks after, 
a capsized boat was thrown on the shore in Uist, with 
two corpses inside, — one entangled in the fishing-net, the 
other in the ropes of the sails. It was the M'Millans* 
boat, and it was the two brothers who were inside. Their 
faces were all eaten away by the dog-fishes ; but the 
people who had done business with them in Uist identi- 
fied them by their clothes. This I know to be true," said 
the Father, emphatically, and shutting the door on all 
argument or hint of scepticism. "And now if you are 
not too tired, suppose we try our luck in the copses down 
there ? 'T was a famous place for rabbits when I was 
here last year." ^ ^ 



IN A SKYE BOTHY. 185 



IN A SKYE BOTHY. 

I AM quite alone here. England may have been 
invaded and London sacked, for aught I know. 
Several weeks since a newspaper, accidentally blown to 
my solitude, informed me that the Great Eastern, with 
the second American telegraphic cable on board, had got 
under way, and was about to proceed to sea. There is 
great joy, I perceive. Human nature stands astonished 
at itself, — felicitates itself on its remarkable talent, and 
will for months to come complacently purr over its 
achievement in magazines and reviews. A fine world, 
messieurs, that will attain to heaven — if in the power of 
steam. A very fine world ; yet for all that, I have with- 
drawn from it for a time, and would rather not hear of 
its remarkable exploits. In my present mood, I do not 
value them the coil of vapor on the brow of Blaavin, 
which, as I gaze, smoulders into nothing in the fire of 
sunrise. 

Goethe informs us that in his youth he loved to shelter 
himself in the Scripture narratives from the marching 
and countermarching of armies, the cannonading, fight- 
ing, and retreating, that went on everywhere around 
him. He shut his eyes, as it were, and a whole war-con- 
vulsed Europe wheeled away into silence and distance ; 
and in its place, lo ! the patriarchs, with their tawny 
tents, their man-servants and maid-servants, and countless 
flocks in perceptible procession whitening the Syrian 
plains. In this, my green solitude, I appreciate the full 



186 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

sweetness of the passage. Everything here is silent as 
the Bible plains themselves. I am cut off from former 
scenes and associates as by the sullen Styx and the grim 
ferrying of Charon's boat. The noise of the world does 
not touch me. I live too far inland to hear the thunder 
of the reef. To this place no postman comes ; no tax- 
gatherer. This region never heard the sound of the 
church-going bell. The land is Pagan as when the yel- 
low-haired Norseman landed a thousand years ago. I 
almost feel a Pagan myself. Not using a notched stick, 
I have lost all count of time, and don't know Saturday 
from Sunday. Civilization is like a soldier's stock, it 
makes you carry your head a good deal higher, makes 
the angels weep a little more at your fantastic tricks, and 
half suffocates you the while. I have thrown it away, 
and breathe freely. My bed is the heather, my mirror 
the stream from the hills, my comb and brush the sea 
breeze, my watch the sun, my theatre the sunset, and my 
evening service — not without a rude natural religion in 
it — watching the pinnacles of the hills of CuchuUin 
sharpening in intense purple against the pallid orange of 
the sky, or listening to the melancholy voices of the sea- 
birds and the tide ; that over, I am asleep, till touched 
by the earliest splendor of the dawn. I am, not without 
reason, hugely enamored of my vagabond existence. 

My bothy is situated on the shores of one of the Lochs 
that intersect Skye. The coast is bare and rocky, hol- 
lowed into fantastic chambers ; and when the tide is 
making, every cavern murmurs like a sea-shell. The 
land, from frequent rain, green as emerald, rises into soft 
pastoral heights, and about a mile inland soars suddenly 
up into peaks of bastard marble, white as the cloud under 
wliich the lark sings at noon, and bathed in rosy light at 



THE CUCHULLINS. 187 

sunset. In front are the Cuchullin hills and the mon- 
strous peak of Blaavin ; then the green strath runs nar- 
rowing out to sea, and the Island of Rum, with a white 
cloud upon it, stretches like a gigantic shadow across the 
entrance of the loch, and completes the scene. Twice 
every twenty-four hours the Atlantic tide sets in upon 
the hollowed shores ; twice is the sea withdrawn, leaving 
spaces of smooth sand on which mermaids, with golden 
combs, might sleek alluring tresses ; and black rocks, 
heaped with brown dulse and tangle, and lovely ocean 
blooms of purple and orange ; and bare islets — marked 
at full of tide by a glimmer of pale green amid the uni- 
versal sparkle — where most the sea-fowl love to con- 
gregate. To these islets, on favorable evenings, come 
the crows, and sit in sable parliament; business de- 
spatched, they start into air as at a gun, and stream away 
through the sunset to their roosting-place in the Arma- 
dale woods. The shore supplies for me the place of 
books and companions. Of course Blaavin and the 
Cuchullin hills are the chief attractions, and I never 
weary watching them. In the morning they wear a 
great white caftan of mist ; but that lifts away before 
noon, and they stand with all their scars and passionate 
torrent-lines bare to the blue heavens, with perhaps a 
solitary shoulder for a moment gleaming wet to the sun- 
light. After a while a vapor begins to steam up from 
their abysses, gathering itself into strange shapes, knot- 
ting and twisting itself like smoke ; while above, the 
terrible crests are now lost, now revealed, in a stream 
of flying rack. In an hour a wall of rain, gray as gran- 
ite, opaque as iron to the eye, stands up from sea to 
heaven. The loch is roughening before the wind, and 
the islets, black dots a second ago, are patches of roaring 



188 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

foam. You hear fierce sound of its coming. Anon, the 
lashing tempest sweeps over you, and looking behind, up 
the long inland glen, you can see the birch-woods and 
over the sides of the hills, driven on the wind, the white 
smoke of the rain. Though fierce as a charge of High- 
land bayonets these squalls are seldom of long duration, 
and you bless them when you creep from your shelter, 
for out comes the sun, and the birch-woods are twinkling, 
and more intensely flash the levels of the sea, and at a 
stroke the clouds are scattered from the wet brow of 
Blaavin, and to the whole a new element has been 
added ; the voice of the swollen stream as it rushes red 
over a hundred tiny cataracts, and roars river-broad into 
the sea, making turbid the azure. Then I have my 
amusements in this solitary place. The mountains are 
of course open, and this morning, at dawn, a roe swept 
past me like the wind, with its nose to the dewy ground, 
— " tracking," they call it here. Above all, I can wan- 
der on the ebbed beach. Hogg speaks of that 

" Undefined and mingled hum, 
Voice of the desert, never dumb." 

But far more than the murmuring and insecty air of the 
moorland does the wet chirk-chirking of the living shore 
give one the idea of crowded and multitudinous life. 
Did the reader ever hunt razor-fish? — not sport like 
tiger-hunting, I admit ; yet it has its pleasures and ex- 
citements, and can kill a forenoon for an idle man agree- 
ably. On the wet sands yonder the razor-fish are spout- 
ing like the fountains at Versailles on a fete day. The 
shy fellow sinks on discharging his watery feu de joie. 
If you are quickly after him through the sand, you catch 
him, and then comes the tug of war. Address and dex- 



HUNTING RAZOR-FISH. 189 

terity are required. If you pull vigorously, he slips out 
of his sheath a " mother-naked " mollusk, and escapes. 
If you do your spiriting gently, you drag him up to light, 
a long thin case, with a white fishy bulb protruding at 
one end like a root. Rinse him in sea water, toss him 
into your basket, and plunge after another watery flash. 
These razor-fish are excellent eating, the people say, and 
when used as bait no fish that swims the ocean stream, 
— cod, whiting, haddock, flat skate, broad-shouldered 
crimson bream, — no, not the detested dog-fish himself, 
this summer swarming in every Loch and becursed by 
every fisherman, — can keep himself off the hook, and 
in an hour your boat is laden with glittering spoil. Then, 
if you take your gun to the low islands, — and you can 
go dry-shod at ebb of tide, — you have your chance of 
sea-fowl. Gulls of all kinds are there, dookers and 
divers of every description, flocks of shy curlews, and 
specimens of a hundred tribes to which my limited or- 
nithological knowledjDfe cannot furnish a name. The solan 
goose yonder falls from heaven into the water like a 
meteor-stone. See the solitary scart, with long narrow 
wing and outstretched neck, shooting towards some dis- 
tant promontory. Anon, high above head, come wheel- 
ing a covey of lovely sea-swallows. You fire, one flut- 
ters down, never more to skim the horizon or to dip in 
the sea-sparkle. Lift it up; is it not beautiful? The 
wild, keen eye is closed, but you see the delicate slate- 
color of the wings, and the long tail-feathers white as 
the creaming foam. There is a stain of blood on the 
breast, hardly brighter than the scarlet of its beak and 
feet. Lay it down, for its companions are dashing round 
and round, uttering harsh cries of rage and sorrow ; and 
had you the heart, you could shoot them one by one. 



190 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

At ebb of tide wild-looking children, from turf cabins 
on the hillside, come down to hunt shell-fish. Even 
now a troop is busy ; how their shrill voices go the while ! 
Old Effie I see is out to-day, quite a picturesque object, 
with her white cap and red shawl. With a tin can in 
one hand, an old reaping-hook in the other, she goes 
poking among the tangle. Let us see what sport she has 
had. She turns round at our salutation, — very old, old 
almost as the worn rocks around. She might have been 
the wife of Wordsworth's " Leech-gatherer." Her can 
is sprawling with brown crabs ; and, opening her apron, 
she exhibits a large black and blue lobster, — a fellow 
such as she alone can capture. A queer woman is 
Effie, and an awesome. She is familiar with ghosts and 
apparitions. She can relate legends that have power 
over the superstitious blood, and with little coaxing will 
sing those wild Gaelic songs of hers, — of dead lights 
on the sea, of fishing-boats going down in squalls, of 
unburied bodies tossing day and night upon the gray 
peaks of the waves, and of girls that pray God to lay 
them by the sides of their drowned lovers, although for 
them should never rise mass nor chant, and although 
their flesh should be torn asunder by the wild fishes of 
the sea. 

Rain is my enemy here; and at this writing I am 
suffering siege. For three days this rickety dwelling 
has stood assault of wind and rain. Yesterday a blast 
breached the door, and the tenement fluttered for a 
moment like an umbrella caught in a gust. All seemed 
lost ; but the door was got closed again, heavily barred 
across, and the enemy foiled. An entrance, however, had 
been effected and that portion of the attacking column 
which I had imprisoned by my dexterous manoeuvre, 



THE "MONTHLY REVIEW." 191 

maddened itself into whirlwind, rushed up the chimney, 
scattering my turf-fire as it went, and so escaped. Since 
that time the windy columns have retired to the gorges 
of the hills, where I can hear them howl at intervals ; 
and the only thing I am exposed to is the musketry of 
the rain. How viciously the small shot peppers the 
walls ! Here must I wait till the cloudy armament breaks 
up. One's own mind is a dull companion in such cir- 
cumstances. A Sheridan himself, — wont with his wit 
to brighten the feast, whose mind is a phosphorescent 
sea, dark in its rest, but when touched giving out a flash 
of splendor for response, — if cooped up here would be 
dull as a Lincolnshire fen at midnight, unenlivened by 
a single Jack-o'-Lantern. Books are the only refuge on 
a rainy day; but in Skye bothies books are rare. To 
me, however, the gods have proved kind, — for in my 
sore need I found on a shelf here two volumes of the 
old Monthly Review, and I have sauntered through those 
dingy literary catacombs with considerable satisfaction. 
What a strange set of old fogies the writers are ! To 
read them is like conversing with the antediluvians. 
Their opinions have fallen into disuse long ago, and re- 
semble to-day the rusty armor and gimcracks of an old 
curiosity shop. Mr. Henry Rogers has written a fine 
essay on the " Glory and Vanity of Literature," — in 
my own thoughts, out of this dingy material before me 
I can frame a finer. These essays and criticisms were 
thought brilliant, I suppose, when they appeared last 
century; and authors praised therein doubtless consid- 
ered themselves rather handsome flies preserved in pure 
critical amber for the inspection and admiration of pos- 
terity. The volumes were published, I notice, from 
1790 to 1792, and exhibit a period of wonderful literary 



192 A SUMMER m SKYE. 

activity. Not to speak of novels, histories, travels, farces, 
tragedies, upwards of two hundred poems, short and 
long, are brought to judgment ; and several of these — ' 
with their names and the names of their authors I have, 
during the last two days, made acquaintance for the first 
time — are assured of immortality. Perhaps they de- 
served it ; but they have gone down like the steam- 
ship President and left no trace. On the whole, these 
Monthly Reviewers worked hard, and with proper spirit 
and deftness. They had a proud sense of the impor- 
tance of their craft, they laid down the law with great 
gravity, and from critical benches shook their awful wigs 
on offenders ! How it all looks 7iow / " Let us indulge 
ourselves with another extract," quoth one, " and con- 
template once more the tear of grief before we are called 
upon to witness the tear of rapture." Both tears dried 
up long ago, — like those that may have sparkled on a 
Pharaoh's cheek. Hear this other, stern as Rhadaman- 
thus. Behold Duty steeling itself against human weak- 
ness ! " It grieves us to wound a young man's feelings : 
but our judgment must not be biassed by any plea what- 
soever. Why will men apply for our opinion when they 
know that we cannot be silent, and that we will not lie ? " 
Listen to this prophet in Israel, one who has not bent 
the knee to Baal, and say if there be not a plaintive 
touch of pathos in him : " Fine words do not make 
fine poems. Scarcely a month passes in which we are 
not obliged to issue this decree. But in these days of 
universal heresy our decrees are no more respected than 
the bulls of the Bishop of Rome." O that men would 
hear, that they would incline their hearts to wisdom! 
One peculiarity I have noticed, — the advertisement sheets 
which accompanied the numbers are bound up with them, 



THE "MONTHLY KEVIEW." 193 

and form an integral portion of the volumes. And just 
as the tobacco-less man whom we met at the entrance 
to Glen Sligachan smoked the paper in which his roll 
of pigtail had been wrapped, so when I had finished the 
criticisms I attacked the advertisements, and found them 
much the more amusing reading. Might not the maga- 
zine-buyer of to-day follow the example of the unknown 
Isles man ? Depend upon it, to the reader of the next 
century the advertising sheets will be more interesting 
than the poetry, or the essays, or the stories. The two 
volumes were a godsend ; but at last I began to weary 
of the old literary churchyard in which the poet and 
his critic sleep in the same oblivion. When I closed 
the books, and placed them on their shelves, the rain 
peppered the walls as pertinaciously as when I took 
them down. 

Next day it rained still. It was impossible to go out ; 
the volumes of the Monthly Revieio were sucked oranges, 
and could yield no further amusement or interest. What 
was to be done? I took refuge with the Muse. Cer- 
tain notions had got into my brain, — certain stories had 
tak^en possession of my memory, — and these I resolved 
to versify and finally to dispose of. Here are " Poems 
Written in a Skye Bothy." The competent critic will 
see at a glance that they are the vilest plagiarisms, — 
that as throughout I have called the sky " blue " and the 
grass " green," I have stolen from every English poet 
from Chaucer downwards ; he will observe also, from 
occasional uses of "all" and "and," that they are the 
merest Tennysonian echoes. But they served their pur- 
pose, — they killed for me the languor of the rainy days, 
which is more than they are likely to do for the critic. 
Here they ai'e : — 



194 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 



THE WELL. 

The well gleams by a mountain road 
Where travellers never come and go 
Fi-om city proud, or poor abode 
That frets the dusky plain below. 
All silent as the mouldering lute 
That in a ruin long hath lain ; 
All empty as a dead man's brain — 
The path untrod by human foot, 
That, thread-like, far away doth nin 
To savage peaks, whose central spire 
Bids farewell to the setting sun. 
Good-morrow to the morning's fire. 

The country stretches out beneath 
In gloom of wood and gray of heath ; 
The carriers' carts with mighty loads 
Black dot the long white country roads; 
The stationary stain of smoke 
Is crowned by spire and castle rock; 
A silent line of vapory white, 
The train creeps on from shade to light; 
The river journeys to the main 
Throughout a vast and endless plain, 
Far-shadowed by the laboring breast 
Of thunder leaning o'er the west. 

A rough uneven waste of gray. 

The landscape stretches day by day; 

But strange the sight when evening sails 

Athwart the mountains and the vales ; 

Furnace and forge, by daylight tame, 

Uplift their restless towers of flame, 

And cast a broad and angry glow 

Upon the rain-cloud hanging low; 

As dark and darker grows the hour, 

More wild their color, vast their power, 

Till by the glare in shepherd's shed, 

The mother sings her babe abed : 

From town to town the pedler wades 

Through far-flung crimson lights and shades. 



THE WELL. 195 



As softly fall the autumn nights 
The city blossoms into lights; 
Now here, now there, a sudden spark 
Sputters the twilight's light-in-dark; 
Afar a glimmering crescent shakes; 
The gloom across the valley breaks 
La glow-worms; swiftly, strangely fair, 
A bridge of lamps leaps through the air. 
And hangs in night; and sudden shines 
The long street's splendor-fretted lines. 
Litense and bright that fiery bloom 
Upon the bosom of the gloom ; 
At length the starry clusters fail, 
Afar the lustrous crescents pale, 
Till all the wondrous pageant dies 
Li gray light of damp-dawning skies. 

High stands that lonely mountain ground 
Above each babbling human sound; 
Yet from its place afar it sees 
Night scared by angry furnaces ; 
The lighting up of city proud. 
The brightness o'er it in the cloud. 
The foolish people never seek 
Wise counsel from that silent peak, 
Though from its height it looks abroad 
All-seeing as the eye of God, 
Haunting the peasant on the down. 
The workman in the busy town; 
Though from the closely-curtained dawn 
The day is by the mountain drawn — 
Whether the slant lines of the rain 
Fill high the brook and shake the pane; 
Or noonday reapers, wearied, halt 
On sheaves beneath a blinding vault. 
Unshaded by a vapor's fold — 
Though from that mountain summit old 
The cloudy thunder breaks and rolls, 
Through deep reverberating souls; 
Though from it comes the angry light, 
Whose forky shiver scars the sight, 
And rends the shrine from floor to dome. 
And leaves the gods without a home. 



196 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

And ever in that under-world, 
Bound which the weary clouds are furled, 
The cry of one that buys and sells, 
The laughter of the bridal bells 
Clear-breaking from cathedral towers } 
The pedler whistling o'er the moors ; 
The sun-burnt reapers, merry corps. 
With stooks behind and grain before ; 
The huntsman cheering on his hounds, 
Build up one sound of many sounds. 
As instruments of diverse tone, 
The organ's temple-shaking groan, 
Proud trumpet, cymbal's piercing cry, 
Build one consummate harmony : 
As smoke that drowns the city's spires, 
Is fed by twice a million fires ; 
As midnight draws her complex grief 
From sob and wail of bough'and leaf: 
And on those favorable days 
When earth is free from mist and haze, 
And heaven is silent as an ear 
Down-leaning, loving words to hear. 
Stray echoes of the world are blown 
Around those pinnacles of stone, — 
The saddest sound beneath the stan. 
Earth's thousand voices blent in one. 

And purely gleams the crystal well 

Amid the silence terrible ; 

On heaven its eye is ever wide, 

At morning and at eventide ; 

And as a lover in the sight 

And favor of his maiden bright. 

Bends till his face he proudly spies 

In the clear depths of upturned eyes, — 

The mighty heaven above it bowed. 

Looks down and sees its crumbling cioud; 

Its round of summer blue immense, 

Drawn in a yard's circumference, 

And lingers o'er the image there, 

Than its once self more purely fair. 

Whence come the waters, garnered up 



AUTUMN. 197 

So pui-ely in that rocky cup ? 

They come from regions high and far, 

Where blows the wind, and shines the star. 

The silent dews that Heaven distils 

At midnight on the lonely hills ; 

The shower that plain and mountain dims, 

On which the dazzling rainbow swims: 

The torrents from the thunder gloom, 

Let loose as by the crack of doom. 

The whirling waterspout that cracks 

Into a scourge of cataracts, 

Are swallowed by the thirsty ground, 

And day and night without a sound, 

Through banks of mai-1, and belts of ores, 

They filter through a million pores, 

Losing each foul and turbid stain : 

So fed by many a trickhng vein, 

The well, through silent days and years, 

Fills softly, like an eye with tears. 



AUTUMN, 



Happy Tourist, freed from London, 

The planets' murmur in the Times! 

Seated here with task work undone, 

I must list the city chimes 

A fortnight longer. As I gaze 

On Pentland's back, where noonday piles his 

Mists and vapors : old St. Giles's 

Coronet in sultry haze : 

A hoary ridge of ancient town 

Smoke- wreathed, picturesque, and still; 

Cirque of crag and templed hill. 

And Arthur's lion couching down 

In watch, as if the news of Flodden 

Stirred him yet — my fancy flies 

To level wastes and moors untrodden 

Purpling 'neath the low-hung skies. 

I see the burdened orchards, mute and mellow: 

I see the sheaves ; while, girt by reaper trains, 



198 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

And blurred by breaths of horses, through a yellow 
September moonlight, roll the swaggering wains. 

While in this delicious weather 

The apple ripens row on row, 

I see the footsteps of the heather 

Purpling ledges : to and fro 

In the wind the restless swallows 

Turn and twitter ; on the crag 

The ash, with all her scarlet berries, 

Dances o'er a burn that hurries 

Foamily from jag to jag: 

Now it babbles over shallows 

Where great scales of sunlight flicker; 

Narrowed 'gainst the bank it quicker 

Runs in many a rippled ridge ; 

Anon in purple pools and hollows 

It slumbers : and beyond the bridge, 

On which a troop of savage children clamber, 

A sudden ray comes out 

And scuds a startled trout 

O'er golden stones, through chasms brilliant amber. 

To-day one half remembers 

With a sigh, 

In the yellow-mooned Septembers 

Long gone by, 

Many a solitary stroll 

With an ever-flowing soul 

When the moonbeam, falling white 

On the wheat fields, was delight ; 

When the whisper of the river 

Was a thing to list forever ; 

When the call of lonely bird 

Deeper than all music stirred; 

When the restless spirit shook 

O'er some prophesying book, 

In whose pages dwelt the hum 

Of a life that was to come ; 

When I, in a young man's fashion, 

Longed for some excess of passion, — 

Melancholy, glory, pleasure, 

Heaped up to a lover's measure; 

For some unknown experience 



WARDIE. — SPRING-TBIE. 199 

To unlock this mortal fence, 

And let the cooped-up spirit range 

A world of wonder, sweet and strange : 

And thought, joy all joys above! 

Experience would be faced like Love. 

When I dreamed that youth would be 

Blossomed lilce an apple-tree, 

The fancy in extremest age 

Would dewll within the spirit sage, 

Like the wall-flower on the ruin, 

With its smile at Time's undoing, 

Like the wall-flower on the ruin, 

The brighter from the wreck it grew in. 

Ah, how dearly one remembers 

Memory-embalmed Septembers 

But I start, as well I may, 

I have wasted half a day. 

The west is red above the sun, 

And my task work unbegun. 

Nature will not hold a tmce 
With a beauty without use: 
Spring, though blithe and debonair, 
Eipens plum and ripens pear. 

mellow, mellow orcha rd bough I 
yellow, yellow wheat en plain! 
Soon will reaper wipe his brow, 
Gleaner glean her latest grain, 
October like a gypsy bold, 
Pick the berries in the lane, 
And November, woodman old. 
With fagots gathered 'gainst the cold. 
Trudge through wind and rain. 



WAKDIE. — SPRING-TIME. 

In the exuberance of hope and life, 
When one is plaj'ed on like an instrument 
By passion, and plain faces are divine; 
When one holds tenure in the evening star. 
We love the pensiveness of autumn air, 



200 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

The songless fields, brown stubbles, hectic woods : 
For as a prince may in his splendor sigh. 
Because the splendors are his common wear, 
Youth pines within the sameness of delight: 
And the all-trying spirit, uncontent 
With aught that can be fully known, beguiles 
Itself with melancholy images, 
Sits down at gloomy banquets, broods o'er graves, 
Tries unknown sorrow's edge as curiously 
(And not without a strange prophetic thrill) 
As one might try a sword's, and makes itself 
The Epicurus of fantastic griefs. 

But when the blood chills and the years go by. 

As we resemble autumn more, the more 

We love the resurrection time of spring. 

And spring is now around me. Snowdrops came; 

Crocuses gleamed along the garden walk 

Like footlights on the stage. But these are gone. 

And now before my door the poplar burns, 

A torch enkindled at an emerald fire. 

The flowering currant is a rosy cloud; 

One dafibdil is hooded , one full blown : 

The sunny mavis from the tree-top sings ; 

Within the flying sunlights twinkling troops 

Of chaflSnches jerk here and there; beneath 

The shrubbery the blackbird runs, then flits, 

With chattering cry: demure at ploughman's heel, 

Within the red-drawn furrow, stalks the rook, 

A pale metallic glister on his back ; 

And, like a singing arrow upwards shot 

Far out of sight, the lark is in the blue. 

This morning, when the stormy front of March 
Is masked with June, and has as sweet a breath, 
And sparrows fly with straws, ^nd in the elms 
Rooks flap and caw, then stream off to the fields, 
And thence returning, flap and caw again, 
I gaze in idle pleasantness of mood, 
Far down upon the harbor and the sea, — 
The smoking steamer half-way 'cross the Firth 
Shrunk to a beetle's size, the dark-brown sails 
Of scattered fishing-boats ; and still beyond, 



W ARDIE. — SPRING-TIME. 201 

Seen dimly through a vale of tender haze, 

The coast of Fife indorsed with ancient towns, — 

As quaint and strange to-day as when the queen. 

In whose smile lay the headsman's glittering axe, 

Beheld them from her tower of Holyrood, 

And sighed for fruitful France, and turning, cowered 

From the lank shadow, Darnley, at her side. 

Behind, the wondrous city stretches dim 

With castle, spire, and column, from the line 

Of wavy Pentland to the pillared range 

That keeps in memory the men who fell 

In the great war that closed at "Waterloo. 

Whitely the pillars gleam against the hill, 

"While the light flashes by. The wondrous town. 

That keeps not summer, when the summer comes, 

"Without her gates, but takes it to her heart 1 

The mighty shadow of the castle falls 

At noon athwart deep gardens, roses blow 

And fade in hearing of the chariot-wheel. 

High-lifted capital that look'st abroad. 

With the great lion couchant at thy side. 

O'er fertile plains embossed with woods and towns; 

O'er silent Leith's smoke-huddled spires and masts; 

O'er unlinked Forth, slow wandering with her isles 

To ocean's azure, spreading faint and wide, 

O'er which the morning comes, — if but thy spires 

Were dipped in deeper sunshine, tenderer shade, 

Through bluer heavens rolled a brighter sun, 

The traveller would call thee peer of Rome 

Or Florence, white-towered, on the mountain-side. 

Bums trod thy pavements with his ploughman's stoop 
And genius-flaming eyes. Scott dwelt in thee, 
The homeliest-featured of the demigods : 
Apollo, with a deep Northumbrian burr; 
And Jeffrey, with his sharp-cut critic face ; 
And Lockhart, with his antique Roman taste; 
And Wilson, reckless of his splendid gifts 
As hillside of its streams in thunder rain; 
And Chalmers, with those heavy slumberous lids, 
Veiling a prophet's eyes; and Miller, too. 
Primeval granite amongst smooth-rubbed men, — 
9* 



202 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

Of all the noble race but one remains — 
Aytoun — with silver bugle at his side 
That echoed through the gorges of romance, — 
Pity that 't is so seldom at his lip ! 

This place is fair; but when the year hath grown 

From snow-drops to the dusk auricula, 

And spaces thronged to-day with naked boughs, 

Are banks of murmuring foliage, chestnut-flowered, 

Far fairer. Then, as in the summer past. 

From the red village underneath the hill. 

When the long daylight closes, in the hush 

Comes the pathetic mirth of children's games: 

Or clear sweet trebles, as two lines of girls 

Advance and then retire, singing the while 

Snatches of some old ballad sore decayed. 

And crumbling to no-meaning through sheer age, — 

A childish drama watched by laboring men 

In shirt-sleeves, smoking at the open doors, 

With a strange sweetness stirring at their hearts. 

Then when the darkness comes and voices cease. 

The long-ranged brick-kilns glow, the far-stretched pier 

Breaks out, like Aaron's rod, in buds of fire ; 

And with a startling suddenness the light. 

That like a glow-worm slumbers on Inchkeith, 

Broadens, then to a glow-worm shrinks again. 

The sea is dark, but on the darker coast 

Beyond, the ancient towns Queen Mary knew 

Glitter, like swarms of fire-flies, here and there. 

Come, Summer, from the south, and grow apace 

From flower to flower, until thy prime is reached, 

Then linger, linger, linger o'er the rose! 



DANSCIACH. 



Upon a ruin by the desert shore, 
I sat one autumn day of utter peace, 

Watching a lustrous stream of vapor pour 
O'er Blaavin, fleece on fleece. 



DANSCIACH. 203 

The blue frith stretched in front without a sail, 
Huge boulders on the shore lay wrecked and strown; 

Behind arose, storm-bleached and lichen-pale, 
Buttress and wall of stone. 

And sitting on the Norseman's ruined stair. 

While through the shining vapors downward rolled, 

A ledge of Blaavin gleamed out, wet and bare, 
I heard this story told : — 

*' All night the witch sang, and the castle grew 
Up from the rock, with tower and turret crowned : 

All night she sang, — when fell the morning dew 
'T was finished round and round. 

" From out the morning ambers opening wide, 

A galley, many-oared and dragon-beaked, 
Came, bearing bridegroom Sigurd, happy-eyed, 

Bride Hilda, brilliant-cheeked. 

" And in the witch's castle, magic-built. 

They dwelt in bridal sweetness many a year, 

Till tumult rose in Norway, — blood was spilt, — 
Then Sigurd grasped his spear. 

" The Islesmen murmured 'gainst the Norseman's tax^ 
Jarl Sigurd led them, — many a skull he cleft 

Ere, 'neath his fallen standard, battle-axe 
Blood-painted to the heft, 

" He lay at sunset propped up by his slain, 
(Leader and kerne that he had smitten down,) 

Stark, rigid ; in his haut face scorn and pain. 
Fixed in eternal frown. 

" When they brought home the bloody man, the sight 
Blanched Hilda to her hair of bounteous gold ; 

That day she was a happy bride, that night 
A woman gray and old. 

** The dead man left his eyes beneath the brows 

Of Hilda, in a child whose speech 
Prattled of sword, spear, buckler, idle rows 

Of galleys on the beach. 



204 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

" And Hilda sang him songs of northern lands, 
Weird songs of foamy wraith and roaming sail, 

Songs of gaunt wolves, clear icebergs, magic brands. 
Enchanted shirts of mail. 

" The years built up a giant broad and grave, 
With florid locks, and eyes that looked men through ; 

A passion for the long lift of the wave 
From roaming sires he drew. 

" Amongst the craggy islands did he rove. 
And, like an eagle, took and rent his prey ; 

Oft, deep with battle-spoil, his galleys clove 
Homeward their joyous way. 

" He towering, full-armed, in the van, with spear 
Outstretched, and hair blown backward like a flame ; 

While to the setting sun his oarsmen rear 
The glory of his name. 

" Once, when the sea his battle galleys crossed. 
His mother, sickening, turned from summer light. 

And faced death as the Norse land, clenched with frost, 
Faces the polar night. 

" At length his masts came raking through the mist: 
He poured upon the beach his wild-eyed bands: 

The fierce, fond, dying woman turned and kissed 
His orphan-making hands, 

" And leaned her head against his mighty breast 
In pure content, well knowing so to live 

One single hour was aU that death could wrest 
Away, or life could give ; 

" And murmured as her dying fingers took 
Farewell of cheek and brow, then fondly drowned 

Themselves in tawny hair, — ' I cannot brook 
Ta sleep here under ground. 

" * My women through my chambers weep and wail : 
I would not waste one tear-drop though I could : 

When they brought home that lordly length of mail 
With bold blood stained and glued. 



DANSCIACH. 205 

" * I wept out all my tears. Amongst my kind 

I cannot sleep; so upon Marsco's head, 
Right in the pathway of the Norway wind, 

See thou and make my bed ! 

" ' The north- wind blowing on that lonely place 
Will comfort me. Kiss me, my Torquil ! I 

Feel the big hot tears plashing on my face. 
How easy 't is to die ! ' 

" The farewell-taking arms around him set 
Clung closer ; and a feeble mouth was raised, 

Seeking for his in darkness, — ere they met 
The eyeballs fixed and glazed. 

*' Dearer that kiss, by pain and death forestalled, 
Than ever yet touched lip ! Beside the bed 

The Norseman knelt till sunset, then he called 
The dressers of the dead, 

" Who, looking on her face, were daunted more 
Than when she, living, flashed indignant fires ; 

For in the gathering gloom the features wore 
A look that was her sire's. 

" And upward to a sea-o'erstaring peak 

With lamentation was the Princess borne, 
And, looking northward, left with evening meek, 

And fiery-shooting morn." 

In this wise ran the story full of breaks ; 

And brooding o'er that subtle sense of death 
That sighs through all our happy days, that shakes 

All raptures of our breath, 

Methought I saw the ancient woman bowed 
By sorrow in her witch-built home, — and still 

The radiant billows of autumnal cloud 
Flowed on the monstrous hill. 



206 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 



EDENBAIN. 

Young Edenbain cantered 

Across to Kilmuir, 
The road was rough, 

But his horse was sure. 
The mighty sun taking 

His splendid sea-bath, 
Made golden the greenness 

Of valley and strath. 

He cared not for sunset, 

For gold rock nor isle : 
O'er his dark face there flitted 

A secretive smile. 
His cousin, the great 

London merchant, was dead, 
Edenbain was his heir, — 

" I '11 buy lands," he said. 

" Men fear death. How should I ! 

We live and we learn — 
r faith, death has done me 

The handsomest turn. 
Young, good-looking, thirty — 

(Hie on, Roger, hie!) 
I '11 taste every pleasure 

That money can buy. 

" Duntulm and Dunsciach 

May laugh at my birth. 
Let them laugh t Father Adam 

Was made out of earth. 
What are worm-eaten castles 

And ancestry old, 
'Gainst a modern purse stuflFed 

With omnipotent gold? " 

He saw himself riding 

To kirk and to fair, 
Hats lifting, arms nudging, 

" That 's Edenbain there ! " 



EDENBAIN. 207 

He thought of each girl 

He had known in his life, 
Nor could fix on which sweetness 

To pluck for a wife. 

Home Edenbain cantered, 

With pride in his heart, 
When sudden he pulled up 

His horse with a start. 
The road, which was bare 

As the desert before, 
Was covered Avith people 

A hundred and more. 

'T was a black creeping funeral; 

And Edenbain drew 
His horse to the side of 

The roadway. He knew 
In the cart rolling past 

That a coffin was laid — 
But whose ? the harsh outline 

Was hid by a plaid. 

The cart passed. The mourners 

Came marching behind: 
In front his own father, 

Gray-headed, stone-blind ; 
And far-removed cousins. 

His own stock and race. 
Came after in silence, 

A cloud on each face. 

Together walked Mugstot 

And fiery-souled Ord, 
Whom six days before 

He had left at his board. 
Behind came the red-bearded 

Sons of Tormore 
With whom he was drunk 

Scarce a fortnight before. 

" Who is dead? Don't they know me? " 

Thought young Edenbain, 
With a weird terror gathering 

In heart and in brain. 



208 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

In a moment the black 
Crawling funeral was gone, 

And he sat on his horse 
On the roadway alone. 

" 'T is the second sight," cried he; 

" 'T is strange that I miss 
Myself 'mong the mourners ! 

• Whose burial is this ? 
My God ! 't is my own ! " 

And the blood left his heart, 
As he thought of the dead man 

That lay in the cart. 

The sun, ere he sank in 

His splendid sea-bath, 
Saw Edenbain spur through 

The golden-green strath. 
Past a twilighted shepherd 

At watch rushed a horse, 
With Edenbain dragged 

At the stirrup a corse. 



PEEBLES. 



I LAY in my bedroom at Peebles 

With my window curtains drawn, 
While there stole over hill of pasture and pine 

The unresplendent dawn. 

And through the deep silence I listened, 

With a pleased, half- waking heed. 
To the sound which ran through the ancient town, 

The shallow-brawling Tweed. 

For to me 't was a realization 

Of dream } and I felt like one 
Who first sees the Alps, or the Pyramids, 

World-old, in the setting sun; 



PEEBLES. 209 

First, crossing the purple Campagna, 

Beholds the wonderful dome 
"Which a thought of ^lichael Angelo hung 

In the golden air of Kome. 

And all through the summer morning 

I felt it a joy indeed 
To whisper again and again to myself, 

This is the voice of the Tweed. 

Of Dryburgh, Melrose, and Neidpath, 

Norham Castle brown and bare, 
The merry sun shining on merry Carhsle, 

And the Bush aboon Traquair, 

I had dreamed : but most of the river, 

That, glittering mile on mile, 
Flowed through my imagination, 

As through Egypt flows the Nile. 

Was it absolute truth, or a dreaming 

That the wakeful day disowns, 
That I heard something more in the stream, as it ran, 

Than water breaking on stones ? 

Now the hoofs of a flying mosstrooper. 

Now a bloodhound's bay, half caught. 
The sudden blast of a hunting horn, 

The burr of Walter Scott? 

Who knows ? But of this I am certain. 

That but for the ballads and wails 
That make passionate dead things, stocks and stones. 

Make piteous woods and dales. 

The Tweed were as poor as the Amazon, 

That, for all the years it has rolled, 
Can tell but how fair was the morning red, 

How sweet the evening gold. 



210 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 



JUBILATION OF SERGEANT M'TURK ON WITNESSING THE 
HIGHLAND GAMES. 

Inverness, 1864. 

Hurrah for the Highland glory ! 

Hurrah for the Highland fame ! 
For the battles of the great Montrose, 

And the pass of the gallant Grseme ! 
Hurrah for the knights and nobles 

That rose up in their place, 
And perilled fame and fortune 

For Charlie's bonny face ! 

Awa frae green Lochaber 

He led his slender clans : 
The rising skirl o' our bagpipes fleyed 

Sir John at Prestonpans. 
Ance mair we gathered glory 

In Falkirk's battle stoure, ■ 
Ere the tartans lay red-soaked in bluid 

On black Dnimossie Moor. 

An' when the weary time was owre, 

When the head fell frae the neck, 
Wolfe heard the cry, " They run, they run ! " 

On the heights aboon Quebec. 
At Ticonderoga's fortress 

We fell on sword and targe : 
Hurt Moore was lifted up to see 

" His Forty-second " charge. 

An' aye the pipe was loudest, 

An' aye the tartans flew. 
The first frae bluidy Mai da 

To bluidier Waterloo. 
We have sailed owre many a sea, my lads, 

We have fought 'neath many a sky, 
And it 's where the fight has hottest raged 

That the tartans thickest lie. 



A WEDDING-NIGHT. 211 

We landed, lads, in India, 

When in our bosom's core 
One bitter memory burned like hell, — 

The shambles at Cawnpore. 
Weel ye mind our march through the furnace-heats, 

Weel ye mind the heaps of slain, 
As we followed through his score of fights 

Brave " Havelock the Dane." 

Hurrah for the Highland glory ! 

Hurrah for the Highland names ! 
God bless you, noble gentlemen ! 

God love you, bonny dames ! 
And sneer not at the brawny limbs, 

And the strength of our Highland men, — 
When the bayonets next are levelled, 

They may all be needed then. 

These verses I had no sooner copied out in my best 
hand than, looking up, I found that the rain had ceased 
from sheer fatigue, and that great white vapors were 
rising up from the damp valleys. Here was release 
at last, — the beleaguering army had raised the siege ; 
and, better than all, pleasant as the sound of Blucher's 
cannon on the evening of "Waterloo, I heard the sound 
of wheels on the boggy ground : and just when the 
stanched rain-clouds were burning into a sullen red at 
sunset, I had the M'lans, father and son, in my bothy, 
and pleasant human intercourse. They came to carry 
me off with them. 

I am to stay with Mr. MTan to-night. A wedding 
has taken place up among the hills, and the whole party 
have been asked to make a night of it. The mighty 
kitchen has been cleared for the occasion; torches are 
stuck up, ready to be lighted; and I already hear the 
first mutterings of the bagpipes' storm of sound. The 
old gentleman wears a look of brightness and hilarity, 



212 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

and vows that he will lead off the first reel with the 
bride. Everything is prepared ; and even now the bridal 
party are coming down the steep hill-road. I must go 
out to meet them. To-morrow I return to my bothy to 
watch ; for the weather has become fine now, the sunny 
mists congregating on the crests of Blaavin, — Blaavin 
on which the level heaven seems to lean. 



ANTIQUE APPEARANCES. 213 



THE LANDLORD'S WALK. 

WALKING into the interior of Skye is like walk- 
ing into antiquity ; the present is behind you, 
your face is turned toward Ossian. In the quiet silent 
wilderness you think of London, Liverpool, Edinburgh, 
or whatever great city it may be given you to live and 
work in, as of something of which you were cognizant in 
a former existence. Not only do you breathe the air of 
antiquity; but everything about you is a veritable an- 
tique. The hut by the roadside, thatched with turfs, 
smoke issuing from the roof, is a specimen of one of the 
oldest styles of architecture in the world. The crooked 
spade with which the crofter turns over the sour ground 
carries you away into fable. You remove a pile of 
stones on the moor, and you come to a flagged chamber 
in which there is a handful of human bones, — whose, no 
one can tell. Duntulm and Dunsciach moulder on their 
crags, but the song the passing milkmaid sings is older 
than they. You come upon old swords that were once 
bright and athirst for blood ; old brooches that once 
clasped plaids ; old churchyards with carvings of un- 
known knights on the tombs ; and old men who seem to 
have inherited the years of the eagle or the crow. These 
human antiques are, in their way, more interesting than 
any other ; they are the most precious objects of virtu 
of which the island can boast. And at times, if you can 
keep ear and eye open, you stumble on forms of life, 
relations of master and servant, which are as old as the 



214 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

castle on the crag or the cairn of the chief on the moor. 
Cash payment is not the " sole nexus between man and 
man." In these remote regions your servants' affection 
for you is hereditary as their family name or their family 
ornaments; your foster-brother would die willingly for 
you ; and if your nurse had the writing of your epitaph, 
you would be the bravest, strongest, handsomest man 
that ever walked in shoe-leather or out of it. 

The house of my friend Mr. M'lan is set down on the 
shore of one of the great Lochs that intersect the island ; 
and as it was built in smuggling times, its windows look 
straight down the Loch towards the open sea. Conse- 
quently at night, when lighted up, it served all the pur- 
poses of a lighthouse ; and the candle in the porch win- 
dow, I am told, has often been anxiously watched by the 
rough crew engaged in running a cargo of claret or 
brandy from Bordeaux. Right opposite, on the other 
side of the Loch, is the great rugged fringe of the Cu" 
chullin hills ; and lying on the dry summer grass you can 
see it, under the influence of light and shade, change 
almost as the expression of a human face changes. Be- 
hind the house the ground is rough and broken, every 
hollow filled, every knoll plumaged with birches, and 
between the leafy islands, during the day, rabbits scud 
continually, and in the evening they sit in the glades and 
wash their innocent faces. A mile or two back from the 
house a glen opens into soft green meadows, through 
which a stream flows ; and on these meadows Mr. MTan, 
when the weather permits, cuts and secures his hay. The 
stream is quiet enough usually, but after a heavy day's 
rain, or when a waterspout has burst up among the hills, 
it comes down with a vengeance, carrying everything 
before it. On such occasions its roar may be heard a 



VIEW FROM THE BRIDGE. 215 

mile away. About a pistol-shot from the house the river 
is crossed by a plank bridge, and in fine weather it is a 
great pleasure to sit down there and look about one. 
The stream flows sluggishly over rocks, in the deep 
places of a purple or port-wine color, and lo ! behind 
you, through the arch, slips a sunbeam, and just beneath 
the eye there gleams a sudden chasm of brilliant amber. 
The sea is at ebb, and the shore is covered with stones 
and dark masses of sea-weed ; and the rocks a hundred 
ya»ds off — in their hollows they hold pools of clear sea- 
water in which you can find curious and delicately- 
colored ocean blooms — are covered with orange lichens, 
which contrast charmingly with the masses of tawny 
dulse and the stone-littered shore on the one side, and 
the keen blue of the sea on the other. Beyond the blue 
of the sea the great hills rise, with a radiant vapor flow- 
ing over their crests. Immediately to the left a spur of 
high ground runs out to the sea edge, — the flat top 
smooth and green as a billiard table, the sheep feeding 
on it white as billiard balls, — and at the foot of this spur 
of rock a number of huts are collected. They are half 
lost in an azure veil of smoke, you smell the peculiar 
odor of peat reek, you see the nets lying out on the grass 
to dry, you hear the voices of children. Immediately 
above, and behind the huts and the spur of high ground, 
the hill falls back, the whole breast of it shaggy with 
birch-wood ; and just at the top you see a clearing and a 
streak of white stony road, leading into some other region 
as solitary and beautiful as the one in which you at pres- 
ent are. And while you sit on the bridge in a state of 
half-sleepy contentment, — a bee nuzzling in a bell-shaped 
flower within reach of your stick, the sea-gulls dancing 
silent quadrilles overhead, the white lightning flash of a 



216 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

rabbit from copse to copse twenty yards off, — you hear 
a sharp whistle, then a shout, and looking round there is 
M'lan himself standing on a height, his figure clear 
against the sky ; and immediately the men tinkering the 
boat on the shore drop work and stand and stare, and out 
of the smoke that wraps the cottages rushes bonnetless, 
Lachlan Dhu, or Donald Roy, scattering a brood of 
poultry in his haste, and marvelling much what has 
moved his master to such unwonted exertion. 

My friend's white house is a solitary one, no other 
dwelling of the same kind being within eight miles of it. 
In winter, wind and rain beat it with a special spite ; and 
the thunder of the sea creeps into your sleeping ears, and 
your dreams are of breakers and reefs, and ships going 
to pieces, and the cries of drowning men. In summer, it 
basks as contentedly on its green knoll; green grass, 
with the daisy wagging its head in the soft wind, runs up 
to the very door of the porch. But although solitary 
enough, — so solitary, that if you are asked to dine with 
your nearest neighbor you must mount and ride, — there 
are. many more huts about than those we have seen nes- 
tling on the shore beneath the smooth green plateau on 
which sheep are feeding. If you walk along to the west, 
— and a rough path it is, for your course is over broken 
boulders, — you come on a little bay with an eagle's-nest 
of a castle perched on a cliff, and there you will find a 
school-house and a half a dozen huts, the blue smoke 
steaming out of the crannies in the walls and roofs. 
Dark pyramids of peat are standing about, sheep and 
cows are feeding on the bits of pasture, gulls are weaving 
their eternal dances above, and during the day the school- 
room is murmuring like a beehive, — only a much less 
pleasant task than the making of honey is going on 



THE PENSIONER. 217 

within. Behind the house to the east, hidden by the 
broken ground and the masses of birch-wood, is another 
collection of huts ; and in one of these lives the most 
interesting man in the place. He is an old pensioner, 
who has seen service in different quarters of the world ; 
and frequently have I carried him a string of pigtail, and 
shared his glass of usquebaugh, and heard him, as he sat 
on a stone in tlTe sunshine, tell tales of barrack life in 
Jamaica ; of woody wildernesses filled with gorgeous 
undergrowth, of parasites that climbed like fluttering 
tongues of fire, and of the noisy towns of monkeys and 
parrots in the upper branches. I have heard him also 
severely critical on the different varieties of rum. Of 
every fiery compound he had a catholic appreciation, but 
rum was his special favorite, — being to him what a 
Greek text was to Porson, or an old master to Sir 
George Beautnont. So that you see, although Mr. 
M'lan's bouse was in a sense solitary, yet it was not 
altogether bereaved of the sight and sense of human 
habitations. On the farm there were existing perhaps, 
women and children included, some sixty souls ; and to 
these the relation of the master was peculiar, and per- 
haps without a parallel in the island. 

When, nearly half a century ago, Mr. M'lan left the 
army and became tacksman, he found cotters on his 
farm, and thought their presence as much a matter of 
course as that limpets should be found upon his rocks. 
They had their huts, for which they paid no rent ; they 
had their patches of corn and potato ground, for which 
they paid no rent. There they had always been, and 
there, so far as Mr. MTan was concerned, they would 
remain. He had his own code of generous old-fashioned 
ethics, to which he steadily adhered ; and the man who 
10 



218 A SUMMER IN SKYE 

was hard on the poor, — who would dream of driving 
them from the places in which they were born, — seemed 
to him to break the entire round of the Commandments. 
Consequently the huts still smoked on the hem of the 
shore and among the clumps of birch-wood. The chil- 
dren who played on the green when he first became 
tacksman grew up in process of time and married; 
and on these occasions he not only sent them something 
on which to make merry withal, but he gave them — 
what they valued more — his personal presence ; and he 
made it a point of honor, when the ceremony was over, 
to dance the first reel with the bride. When old men or 
children were sick, cordials and medicines were sent from 
the house ; when old man or child died, Mr. M'lan never 
failed to attend the funeral. He was a Justice of the 
Peace ; and when disputes arose amongst his own cotters, 
or amongst the cotters of others, — whelh, for instance, 
Katy M'Lure accused Effie M'Kean of jt^ealing potatoes ; 
when Red Donald raged against Black Peter on some 
matter relating to the sale of a dozen lambs ; when 
Mary, in her anger at the loss of her sweetheart, accused 
Betty (to whom said sweetheart had transferred his alle- 
giance) of the most, flagrant breaches of morality, — the 
contending parties were sure to come before my friend ; 
and many a rude court of justice I have seen him hold 
at the door of his porch. Arguments were heard fro 
and con^ witnesses were examined, evidence was duly 
sifted and weighed, judgment was made, and the case 
dismissed ; and I believe these decisions gave in the long 
run as much satisfaction as those delivered in Westmin- 
ster or the Edinburgh Parliament-House. Occasionally, 
too, a single girl or shepherd, with whose character lib- 
erties were being taken, would be found standing at the 



MR. M'lAN'S COTTERS. 219 

porch door anxious to make oath that they were innocent 
of the guilt or the impropriety laid to their charge. Mr. 
M'lan would come out and hear the story, make the 
party assert his or her innocence on oath, and deliver a 
written certificate to the effect that, in his presence, on 
such and such a day, so and so had sworn that certain 
charges were unfounded, false, and malicious. Armed 
with this certificate, the aspersed girl or shepherd would 
depart in triumph. He or she had passed through the 
ordeal by oath, and nothing could touch them further. 

Mr. M'lan paid rent for the entire farm ; but to him 
the cotters paid no rent, either for their huts or for their 
patches of corn and potato ground. But the cotters 
ivere by no means merely pensioners, — taking, and giv- 
ing nothing in return. The most active of the girls 
were maids of various degree in Mr. M'lan's house ; 
;he cleverest and strongest of the lads acted as shep- 
herds, etc. ; and these of course received wages. The 
^rown men amongst the cotters were generally at work 
n the south, or engaged in fishing expeditions, during 
mmmer; so that the permanent residents on the farm 
were chiefly composed of old men, women, and chikben. 
When required, Mr. MTan demands the services of these 
jeople just as he would the services of his household 
servants, and they comply quite as readily. If the crows 
ire to be kept out of the corn, or the cows out of the 
;urnip-field, an urchin is remorselessly reft away from his 
^ames and companions. If a boat is out of repair, old 
Dugald is deputed to the job ; and when his task is com- 
pleted, he is rewarded with ten minutes' chat and a glass 
)f spirits up at the house. When fine weather comes, 
3very man, woman, and child is ordered to the hay-field, 
md Mr. M'lan potters amongst them the whole day, and 



220 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

takes care that no one shirks his duty. When his com 
or barley is ripe the cotters cut it, and when the harvest 
operations are completed, he gives the entire cotter pop- 
ulation a dance and harvest-home. But between Mr. 
M'lan and his cotters no money passes ; by a tacit under- 
standing he is to give them house, corn-ground, potato- 
ground, and they are to remunerate him with labor. 

Mr. M'lan, it will be seen, is a conservative, and hates 
change ; and the social system by which he is surrounded 
wears an ancient and patriarchal aspect to a modern eye. 
It is a remnant of the system of clanship. The relation 
of cotter and tacksman, which I have described, is a bit 
of antiquity quite as interesting as the old castle on the 
crag, — nay, more interesting, because we value the old 
castle mainly in virtue of its representing an ancient 
form of life, and here is yet lingering a fragment of the 
ancient form of life itself You dig up an ancient tool or 
weapon in a moor, and place it carefully in a museum ; 
here, as it were, is the ancient tool or weapon in actual 
use. No doubt Mr. M'lan's system has grave defects, — 
it perpetuates comparative wretchedness on the part of 
the cotters, it paralyzes personal exertion, it begets an 
ignoble contentment ; but, on the other hand, it sweetens 
sordid conditions, so far as they can be sweetened, by 
kindliness and good services. If Mr. M'lan's system is 
bad, he makes the best of it, and draws as much comfort 
and satisfaction out of it, both for himself and for others, 
as is perhaps possible. 

Mr. M'lan's speech was as old-fashioned as he was 
himself; ancient matters turned up on his tongue just 
as ancient matters turned up on his farm. You found 
an old grave or an old implement on the one, you found 
an old proverb or an old scrap of a Gaelic poem on the 



THE LANDLORD. 221 

other. After staying with him some ten days, I inti- 
mated my intention of paying a visit to my friend the 
Landlord, — with whom Fellowes was then staying, — ■ 
who lived some forty miles off in the northwestern 
portion of the island. The old gentleman was opposed 
to rapid decisions and movements, and asked me to re- 
main with him yet another week. Wlien he found I 
was resolute he glanced at the weather-gleam, and the 
troops of mists gathering on Cuchullin, muttering as he 
did so, " ' Make ready my galley,' said the king, ' I shall 
sail for Norway on Wednesday.' ' Will you,' said the 
wind, who, flying about, had overheard what was said, 
* you had better ask my leave first.' " 

Between the Landlord and MTan there were many 
likenesses and divergences. Both were Skyemen by 
birth, both had the strongest love for their native island, 
both had the management of human beings, both had 
shrewd heads, and hearts of the kindest texture. But 
at this point the likenesses ended, and the divergences 
began. Mr. M'lan had never been out of the three 
kingdoms. The Landlord had spent the best part of his 
life in India, was more familiar with huts of ryots, topes 
of palms, tanks in which the indigo plant was steeping, 
than with the houses of Skye cotters and the processes 
of sheep-farming. He knew the streets of Benares or 
Delhi better than he knew the streets of London ; and, 
when he first came home, Hindostanee would occasion- 
ally jostle Gaelic on his tongue. The Landlord, too, was 
rich, would have been considered a rich man even in the 
southern cities ; he was owner of many a mile of moor- 
land, and the tides of more than one far-winding Loch 
rose and rippled on shores that called him master. In 
my friend the Landlord there was a sort of contrariety, 



222 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

a sort of mixture or blending of opposite elements which 
was not without its fascination. He was in some re- 
spects a resident in two worlds. He liked motion ; he 
had a magnificent scorn of distance : to him the world 
seemed comparatively small ; and he would start from 
Skye to India with as much composure as other men 
would take the night train to London. He paid taxes in 
India and he paid taxes in Skye. His name was as 
powerful in the markets of Calcutta as it was at the 
Muir of Ord. He read the Hurharu and the Inverness 
Courier. He had known the graceful salaam of the 
East, as he now knew the touched bonnets of his shep- 
herds. And in living with him, in talking with him, one 
was now reminded of the green western island on which 
sheep fed, anon of tropic heats, of pearl and gold, of 
mosque and pinnacle glittering above belts of palm-trees. 
In his company you were in imagination travelling 
backwards and forwards. You made the overland route 
twenty times a day. Now you heard the bagpipe, now 
the monotonous beat of the tom-tom and the keen clash 
of silver cymbals. You were continually passing back- 
wards and forwards, as I have said. You were in the 
West with your half-glass of bitters in the morning, you 
were in the East with the curry at dinner. Both Mr. 
M'lan and the Landlord had the management of human 
beings, but their methods of management were totally 
different. Mr. M'lan accepted matters as he found them, 
and originating nothing, changing nothing, contrived to 
make life for himself and others as pleasant as possible. 
The Landlord, when he entered on the direction of his 
property, exploded every ancient form of usage, actually 
ruled his tenants ; would permit no factor, middle-man, or 
go-between ; met them face to face, and had it out with 



THE WATERSPOUT. 223 

them. The consequence was that the poor people were 
at times sorely bewildered. They received their orders 
and carried them out, with but Httle sense of the ulti- 
mate purpose of the Landlord, — just as the sailor, igno- 
rant of the principles of navigation, pulls ropes and reefs 
sails and does not discover that he gains much thereby, 
the same sea-crescent being around him da}' by day, but 
in due time a cloud rises on the horizon, and he is in 
port at last. 

As MTan had predicted, I could only move from his 
house if the weather granted permission ; and this per- 
mission the weather did not seem disposed to grant. 
For several days it rained as I had never seen it rain 
before ; a waterspout, too, had burst up among the hills, 
and the stream came down in mighty flood. There was 
great hubbub at the house. Mr. MTan's hay, which 
was built in large stacks in the valley meadows, was in 
danger, and the fiery cross was sent through the cotters. 
Up to the hay-fields every available man was despatched 
with carts and horses, to remove the stacks to some spot 
where the waters could not reach them ; while at the 
bridge nearer the house women and boys were stationed 
with long poles, aud what rudely extemporized imple- 
ments Celtic ingenuity could suggest, to intercept and 
fish out piles and trusses which the thievish stream was 
carrying away with it seaward. These piles and trusses 
would at least serve for the bedding of cattle. For 
three days the rainy tempest continued ; at last, on the 
fourth, mist and rain rolled up like a vast curtain in 
heaven, and then again were visible the clumps of birch- 
wood, and the bright sea and the smoking hills, and far 
away on the ocean floor Rum and Canna, without a speck 
of cloud on them, sleeping in the colored calmness of 



224 A SUMl^IEE IN SKYE. 

early afternoon. This uprising of the elemental curtain 
was, so far as the suddenness of the effect was concerned, 
like the uprising of the curtain of the pantomime on the 
transformation scene, — all at once a dingy, sodden world 
had become a brilliant one, and all the newly-revealed 
color and brilliancy promised to be permanent. 

Of this happy change in the weather I of course took 
immediate advantage. About five o'clock in the after- 
noon my dog-6art was brought to the door ; and after a 
parting cup with Mr. M'lan, — who pours a libation both 
to his arriving and his departing guest, -^ I drove away 
on my journey to remote Portree, and to the unimagined 
country that lay beyond Portree, but which I knew held 
Dunvegan, Duntulm, Macleod's Tables, and Quirang. 
I drove up the long glen with pleasant exhilaration of 
spirit. I felt grateful to the sun, for he had released me 
firom rainy captivity. The drive, too, was pretty ; the 
stream came rolling down in foam, the smell of the wet 
birch-trees was in the brilliant air, every mountain-top 
was strangely and yet softly distinct ; and looking back, 
there were the blue Cuchullins looking after me, as if 
bidding me farewell ! At last I reached the top of the 
glen, and emerged on a high plateau of moorland, in 
which were dark inky tarns with big white water-lilies 
on them ; and skirting across the plateau I dipped down 
on the parliamentary road, which, like a broad white belt, 
surrounds Skye. Better road to drive on you will not 
find in the neighborhood of London itself! and just as I 
was descending, I could not help pulling up. The whole 
scene was of the extremest beauty, — exquisitely calm, 
exquisitely colored. On my left was a little lake with a 
white margin of water-lilies, a rocky eminence throwing 
a shadow half-way across it. Down below, on the sea- 



MR. ERASER'S TROUTS. 225 

shore, was the farm of Knock, with white outhouses and 
pleasant patches of cultivation, the school-house, and the 
church, while on a low spit of land the old castle of the 
Macdonalds was mouldering. Still lower down and 
straight away stretched the sleek blue Sound of Sleat, 
with not a sail or streak of steamer smoke to break its 
vast expanse, and with a whole congregation of clouds 
piled up on the horizon, soon to wear their evening col- 
ors. I let the siglit slowly creep into my study of imagi- 
nation, so that I might be able to reproduce it at pleas- 
ure ; that done, I drove down to Isle Oronsay by pleasant 
sloping stages of descent, with green hills on right and 
left, and along the roadside, like a guard of honor, the 
purple staHvs of the foxglove. 

The evening sky was growing red above me when I 
drove into Isle Oronsay, which consists of perhaps fifteen 
houses in all. It sits on the margin of a pretty bay, in 
which the cry of the fisher is continually heard, and into 
which the Glansmaji going to or coming from the south 
steams twice or thrice in the week. At a little distance 
is a light-house with a revolving light, — an idle building 
during the day, but when night comes, awakening to full 
activity, — sending now a ray to Ardnamurchan, now 
piercing with a fiery arrow the darkness of Glenelg. In 
Isle Oronsay is a merchant's shop, in which every con- 
ceivable article may be obtained. At Isle Oronsay the 
post-runner drops a bag, as he hies on to Armadale 
Castle. At Isle Oronsay I supped with my friend Mr. 
Fraser. From him I learned that the little village had 
been, like MTan's house, fiercely scourged by rains. On 
the supper-table was a dish of trouts. " Where do you 
suppose I procured these ? " he asked. " In one of your 
burns, I suppose." "No such thing; I found them in 
10 » o 



226 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

my potato-field." " In your potato-field ! How came that 
about ? " " Why, you see the stream, swollen by three 
days' rain, broke over a potato-field of mine on the hill- 
side and carried the potatoes away, and left these plash- 
ing in pool and runnel. The Skye streams have a slight 
touch of honesty in them ! " I smiled at the conceit, and 
expounded to my host the law of compensation which 
pervades the universe, of which I maintained the trouts 
on the table were a shining example. Mr. Fraser as- 
sented ; but held that Nature was a poor valuator, — that 
her knowledge of the doctrine of equivalents was slightly 
defective, — that the trouts were well enough, but no 
reimbursement for the potatoes that were gone. 

Next morning I resumed my journey. The road, so 
long as it skirted the sea-shore, was pretty enough ; but the 
sea-shore it soon left, and entered a waste of brown mo- 
notonous moorland. The country round about abounds 
in grouse, and was the favorite shooting-ground of the 
late Lord Macdonald. By the roadside his Lordship had 
erected a stable and covered the roof with tin ; and so 
at a distance it flashed as if the Koh-i-noor had been 
dropped by accident in that dismal region. As I went 
along, the hills above Broadford began to rise; then I 
drove down the slope, on which the market was held, — 
the tents all struck, but the stakes yet remaining in the 
ground, — and after passing the six houses, the lime-kiln, 
the church, and the two merchants' shops, I pulled up 
at the inn door, and sent the horse round to the stable 
to feed and to rest an hour. 

After leaving Broadford the traveller drives along 
the margin of the ribbon of salt Avater which flows 
between Skye and the Island of Scalpa. Up this narrow 
sound the steamer never passes, and it is only navigated 



ISLAND OF SCALPA. 227 

by the lighter kinds of sailing craft. Scalpa is a hilly- 
island of some three or four miles in length, by one and 
a half in breadth, is gray-green in color, and as treeless 
as the palm of your hand. It has been the birthplace 
of many soldiers. After passing Scalpa the road ascends ; 
and you notice as you drive along that during the last 
hour or so the frequent streams have changed color. In 
the southern portion of the island they come down as 
if the hills ran sherry, — here they are pale as shallow 
sea-water. This difference of hue arises of course from 
a difference of bed. About Broadford they come down 
through the mossy moorland, here they run over marble. 
Of marble the island is full ; and it is not impossible that 
the sculptors of the twentieth century will patronize the 
quarries of Strath and Kyle rather than the quarries 
of Carrara. But wealth is needed to lay bare these 
mineral treasures. The fine qualities of Skye marble 
will never be obtained until they are laid open by a 
golden pickaxe. 

Once you have passed Scalpa you approach Lord 
Macdonald's deer forest. You have turned the flank of 
the Cuchullins now, and are taking them in rear, and you 
skirt their bases very closely too. The road is full of 
wild ascents and descents, and on your left, for a couple 
of miles or so, you are in continual presence of bouldered 
hillside sloping away upward to some invisible peak, 
overhanging wall of wet black precipice, far-off serrated 
ridge that cuts the sky like a saw. Occasionally these 
mountain forms open up and fall back, and you see the 
sterilest valleys running no man knows whither. Alto- 
gether the hills here have a strange weird look. Each 
is as closely seamed with lines as the face of a man of 
a hundred, and these myriad reticulations are picked out 



228 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

with a pallid gray-green, as if through ^ome mineral 
corrosion. Passing along you are strangely impressed 
with the idea that some vast chemical experiment has 
been going on for some thousands of years ; that the 
region is Nature's laboratory, and that down these wrink- 
led hill-fronts she had spilt her acids and undreamed-of 
combinations. You never think of verdure in connection 
with that network of gray-green, but only of rust, or 
of some metallic discoloration. You cannot help fancy- 
ing that if a sheep fed on one of those hillsides it would 
to a certainty be poisoned. Altogether the sight is very 
grand, very impressive, and very uncomfortable, and it 
is with the liveliest satisfaction that, tearing down one 
of the long descents, you turn your back on the mountain 
monsters, and behold in front the green island of Raasay, 
with its imposing modern mansion, basking in sunshine. 
It is like passing from the world of the gnomes to the 
world of men. 

I have driven across Lord Macdonald's deer forest in 
sunshine and in rain, and am constrained to confess that, 
under the latter atmospherical condition, the scenery is 
the more imposing. Some months ago I drove in the 
mail-gig from Sligachan to Broadford. There was a 
high wind, the sun was bright, and consequently a great 
carry and flight of sunny vapors. All at once, too, 
every half-hour or so, the turbulent brightness of wind 
and cloud was extinguished by fierce squalls of rain. 
You could see the coming rain-storm blown out on the 
wind toward you like a sheet of muslin cloth. On it 
came racing in its strength and darkness, the long straight 
watery lines pelting on road and rock, churning in marsh 
and pool. Over the unhappy mail-gig it rushed, bidding 
defiance to plaid or waterproof cape, and wetting every 



THE MEEK-FACED MAN OF FIFTY. 229 

one to the skin. The mail jogged on as best it could 
through the gloom and the furj, and then the sunshine 
came again making to glisten, almost too brightly for 
the eye, every rain-pool on the road. In the sunny in- 
tervals there was a great race and hurry of towered 
vapor, as I said ; and when a shining mass smote one of 
the hillsides, or shrouded for a while one of the more 
distant serrated crests, the concussion was so palpable 
to the eye that the ear felt defrauded, and silence seemed 
unnatural. And when the vast mass passed onward to 
impinge on some other mountain barrier, it was singular 
to notice by what slow degrees, with what evident re- 
luctance the laggard skirts combed off. All these effects 
of rain and windy vapor I remember vividly, and I 
suppose that the vividness was partly due to the lament- 
able condition of a fellow-traveller. He was a meek- 
faced man of fifty. He was dressed in sables, his swallow- 
tailed coat was threadbare, and withal seemed made for 
a smaller man. There was an uncomfortable space 
between the wrists of his coat and his black-thread 
gloves. He wore a hat, and against the elements had 
neither the protection of plaid nor umbrella. No one 
knew him, to no one did he explain his business. To 
my own notion he was bound for a funeral at some place 
beyond Portree. He was not a clergyman, — he might 
have been a schoolmaster who had become green-moulded 
in some out-of-the-way locality. Of course one or two 
of the rainy-squalls settled the meek-faced man in the 
threadbare sables. Emerging from one of these he re- 
sembled a draggled rook, and the rain was pouring from 
the brim of his pulpy hat as it might from the eaves 
of a cottage. A passenger handed him his spirit-flask, 
the meek-faced man took a hearty pull, and returning 



230 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

it, said plaintively, "I'm but poorly clad, sir, for this 
God-confounded climate." I think often of the utterance 
of the poor fellow : it was the only thing he said all the 
way ; and when I think of it, I see again the rain blown 
out towards me on the wind like a waving sheet of muslin 
cloth, and the rush, the concussion, the upbreak, and the 
slow reluctant trailing off from the hillside of the sunny 
cloud. The poor man's plaintive tone is the anchor 
which holds these things in my memory. 

The forest is of course treeless. Nor are deer seen 
there frequently. Although I have crossed it frequent- 
ly, only once did I get a sight of antlers. Carefully I 
crept up, sheltering myself behind a rocky haunch of 
the hill, to where the herd were lying, and then rushed 
out upon them with a halloo. In an instant they were 
on their feet, and away went the beautiful creatures, doe 
and fawn, a stag with branchy head leading. They 
dashed across a torrent, crowned an eminence one by 
one and disappeared. Such a sight is witnessed but sel- 
dom ; and the traveller passing through the brown deso- 
lation sees usually no sign of life. In Lord Macdonald's 
deer forest neither trees nor deer are visible. 

When once you get quit of the forest you come on 
a shooting-box, perched on the sea-shore ; then you pass 
the little village of Sconser ; and, turning the sharp flank 
of a hill, drive along Loch Sligachan to Sligachan Inn, 
about a couple of miles distant. This inn is a famous 
halting-place for tourists. There are good fishing streams 
about, I am given to understand, and through Glen Sli- 
gachan you can find your way to Camasunary, and take 
the boat from thence to Loch Coruisk, as we did. It 
was down this glen that the messenger was to have 
brought the tobacco to our peculiar friend. If you go 



PORTREE. 231 

you may perhaps find his skeleton scientifically articu- 
lated by the carrion crow and the raven. From the inn 
door the ridges of the Cuchullins are seen ^vildly invad- 
ing the sky, and in closer proximity there are other hills 
which cannot be called beautiful. Monstrous, abnormal, 
chaotic, they resemble the other hills on the earth's sur- 
face, as Hindoo deities resemble human beings. The 
mountain, whose sharp flank you turned after you pass 
Sconser, can be inspected leisurely now, and is to my 
mind supremely ugly. In summer it is red as copper, 
with great ragged patches of verdure upon it, which Jook 
by all the world as if the coppery mass had rusted green. 
On these green patches cattle feed from March to Oc- 
tober. You bait at Sligachan, — can dine on trout which 
a couple of hours before were darting hither and thither 
in the stream, if you like, — and then drive leisurely 
along to Portree while the setting sun is dressing the 
wilderness in gold and rose. And all the way the Cu- 
chullins follow you ; the wild, irregular outline, which no 
familiarity can stale, haunts you at Portree, as it does in 
nearly every quarter of Skye. 

Portree folds two irregular ranges of white houses, the 
one range rising steeply above the other, around a noble 
bay, the entrance to which is guarded by rocky preci- 
pices. At a little distance the houses are white as shells, 
and as in summer they are all set in the greenness of foli- 
age the effect is strikingly pretty; and if the sense of 
prettiness departs to a considerable extent on a closer 
acquaintance, there is yet enough left to gratify you so 
long as you remain there, and to make it a pleasant place 
to think about when you are gone. The lower range of 
houses consists mainly of warehouses and fish-stores ; the 
upper, of the main hotel, the two banks, the court-house. 



232 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

and the shops. A pier runs out into the bay, and here, 
when the state of tide permits, comes the steamer, on its 
way to or from Stornoway and unlades. Should the tide 
be low the steamer lies to in the bay, and her cargo and 
passengers come to shore by means of boats. She usu- 
ally arrives at night ; and at low tide, the burning of 
colored lights at the mastheads, the flitting hither and 
thither of busy lanterns, the pier boats coming and going 
with illumined wakes, and ghostly fires on the oar-blades, 
the clatter of chains and the shock of the crank hoisting 
the cargo out of the hold, the general hubbub and storm 
of Gaelic shouts and imprecations make the arrival at 
once picturesque and impressive. In the bay the yacht 
of the tourist is continually lying, and at the hotel door 
his dog-cart is continually departing or arriving. In the 
hotel parties arrange to visit Quirang or the Storr, 
and on the evenings of market-days, in the large public 
rooms, farmers and cattle-dealers sit over tumblers of 
smoking punch and discuss noisily the prices and the 
qualities of stock. Besides the hotel and the pier, the 
banks, and the court-house already mentioned, there are 
other objects of interest in the little island town, — three 
churches, a post-ofhce, a poor-house, and a cloth manu- 
factory. And it has more than meets the eye, — one of 
the Jameses landed here on a visitation of the Isles, 
Prince Charles was here on his way to Raasay, Dr. 
Johnson and Boswell were here ; and somewhere on the 
green hill on which the pretty church stands, a murderer 
is buried, — the precise spot of burial is unknown, and so 
the entire hill gets the credit that of right belongs only to 
a single yard of it. In Portree the tourist seldom abides 
long ; he passes through it as a fortnight before he passed 
through Oban. It does not seem to the visitor a spe- 



SKEABOST. 233 

cially remarkable place, but everything is relative in this 
world. It is an event for the Islesmau at Dunvegan or 
the Point of Sleat to go to Portree, just as it is an event 
for a Yorkshireman to go to London^ 

When you drive out of Portree you are in Macleod's 
country, and you discover that the character of the sce- 
nery has changed. Looking back, the Cuchullins are wild 
and pale on the horizon, but everything around is brown, 
softly-swelhng, and monotonous. The hills are round 
and low, and except when an occasional boulder crops out 
on their sides like a wart, are smooth as a seal's back. 
They are gray -green in color, and may be grazed to the 
top. Expressing once to a shepherd my admiration of 
the Cuchullins, the man replied, while he swept with 
his arm the entire range, " There 's no feeding there for 
twenty wethers ! " here, however, there is sufficient feed- 
ing to compensate for any lack of beauty. About three 
miles out of Portree you come upon a solitary-looking 
school-house by the wayside, and a few yards farther to 
a division of the roads. A finger-post informs you that 
the road to the right leads to Uig, that to the left to 
Dunvegan. As I am at present bound for Dunvegan, 
I skirr along to the left, and after an hour's drive come 
in sight of blue Loch Snizort, with Skeabost sitting 
whitely on its margin. Far inland from the broad 
Minch, like one of those wavering swords which me- 
diaeval painters place in the hands of archangels, has 
Snizort come wandering; and it is the curious mixture 
of brine and pasture-land, of mariner life and shepherd 
life, which gives its charm to this portion of the island. 
The Lochs are narrow, and you almost fancy a strong- 
lunged man could shout across. The sea-gull skims 
above the feeding sheep ; the shepherd can watch the 



234 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

sail of the sloop, laden with meal, creeping from point 
to point. In the spiritual atmosphere of the country 
the superstitions of ocean and moorland mingle like two 
odors. Above all places which I have seen in Skye, 
Skeabost has a lowland look. There are almost no turf- 
huts to be seen in the neighborhood ; the houses are 
built of stone and lime, and are tidily whitewashed. 
The hills are low and smooth ; on the lower slopes corn 
and wheat are grown ; and from a little distance the 
greenness of cultivation looks like a palpable smile, — 
a strange contrast to the monotonous district through 
which, for an hour or so, you have driven. As you 
pass the inn and drive across the bridge you notice that 
there is an island in the stony stream, and that this island 
is covered with ruins. The Skyeraan likes to bury his 
dead in islands, and this one in the stream at Skeabost 
is a crowded cemetery. I forded the stream, and wan- 
dered for an hour amongst the tombs and broken stones. 
There are traces of an ancient chapel on the island, but 
tradition does not even make a guess at its builder's 
name or the date of its erection. There are old slabs 
lying sideways, with the figures of recumbent men with 
swords in their hands, and inscriptions — indecipherable 
now — carved on them. There is the grave of a Skye 
clergyman who, if his epitaph is to be trusted, was a 
burning and a shining light in his day, — a gospel can- 
dle irradiating the Hebridean darkness. I never saw a 
churchyard so mounded, and so evidently over-crowded. 
Here laird, tacksman, and cotter elbow each other in 
death. Here no one will make way for a new-comer, 
or give the wall to his neighbor. And standing in the 
little ruined island of silence and the dead, with the river 
perfectly audible on either side, one could not help think- 



THE ISLAND OF GRAVES. 235 

ing what a picturesque sight a Highland funeral would 
be, creeping across the moors with wailing pipe-music, 
fording the river, and his bearers making room for the 
dead man amongst the older dead as best they could. 
And this sight, I am told, may be seen any week in the 
year. To this island all the funerals of the country-side 
converge. Standing there, too, one could not help think- 
ing that this space of silence, girt by river noises, would 
be an eerie place by moonlight. The broken chapel, the 
carved slabs lying sideways, — as if the dead man be- 
neath had grown restless and turned himself, — and the 
headstones jutting out of the mounded soil at every vari- 
ety of angle, would appall in the ink of shadow and the 
silver of moonbeam. In such circumstances one would 
hear something more in the stream as it ran past than 
the mere breaking of water on stones. 

After passing the river and the island of graves you 
drive down between hedges to Skeabost church, school, 
post-office, and manse, and thereafter you climb the steep 
hill towards Bernesdale and its colony of turf huts ; and 
when you reach the top you have a noble view of the 
flat blue Minch and the Skye headlands, each precipitous, 
abrupt, and reminding you somehow of a horse which 
has been suddenly reined back to its haunches. The 
flowing lines of those headlands suggest an onward mo- 
tion, and then, all at once, they shrink back upon them- 
selves, as if they feared the roar of breakers and the 
smell of the brine. But the grand vision is not of long 
duration, for the road descends rapidly towards Taynlone 
Inn. In my descent I beheld two barefooted and bare- 
headed girls yoked to a harrow, and dragging it up and 
down a small plot of delved ground. 

Sitting in the inn I began to remember me how fre- 



236 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

quently I had heard In the south of the destitution of the 
Skye people and the discomfort of the Skye hut. Dur- 
ing my wanderings I had the opportunity of visiting 
several of these dwellings, and seeing how matters were 
transacted within. Frankly speaking, the Highland hut 
is not a model edifice. It is open to wind, and almost 
always pervious to rain. An old bottomless herring- 
firkin stuck in the roof usually serves for chimney, but 
the blue peat-reek disdains that aperture, and steams 
wilfully through the door and the crannies in the walls 
and roof. The interior is seldom well-lighted — what 
light there is proceeding rather from the orange glow of 
the peat-fire, on which a large pot is simmering, than 
from the narrow pane with its great bottle-green bull's 
eye. The rafters which support the roof are black and 
glossy with soot, as you can notice by sudden flashes of 
firelight. The sleeping accommodation is limited, and 
the beds are composed of heather or ferns. The floor 
is the beaten earth, the furniture is scanty; there is 
hardly ever a chair, — stools and stones, worn smooth 
by the usage of several generations, have to do instead. 
One portion of the hut is not unfrequently a byre, and 
the breath of the cow is mixed with the odor of peat- 
reek, and the haa of the calf mingles with the wrang- 
lings and swift ejaculations of the infant Highlanders. 
In such a hut as this there are sometimes three genera- 
tions. The mother stands knitting outside, the children 
are scrambling on the floor with the terrier and the 
poultry, and a ray of cloudy sunshine from the narrow 
pane smites the silver hairs of the grandfather near the 
fire, who is mending fishing-nets against the return of 
his son-in-law from the south. Am I inclined to lift my 
hands in horror at witnessing such a dwelling? Cer- 



A HIGHLAND HUT. 237 

tainly not. I have only given one side of the picture. 
The hut I speak of nestles beneath a rock, on the top of 
which dances the ash-tree and the birch. The emerald 
mosses on its roof are softer and richer than the velvets 
of kings. Twenty yards down that path you will find a 
well that needs no ice in the dog-days. At a little dis- 
tance, from rocky shelf to shelf, trips a mountain burn, 
with abundance of trout in the brown pools. At the 
distance of a mile is the sea, which is not allowed to ebb 
and flow in vain ; for in the smoke there is a row of 
fishes drying; and on the floor a curly-headed urchin 
of three years or thereby is pommelling the terrier with 
the scarlet claw of a lobster. Methought, too, when I 
entered I saw beside the door a heap of oyster shells. 
Within the hut there is good food, if a little scant at 
times ; without there is air that will call color back to the 
cheek of an invalid, pure water, play, exercise, work. That 
the people are healthy, you may see from their strong 
frames, brown faces, and the age to which many attain ; 
that they are happy and light-hearted, the shouts of 
laughter that ring round the peat-fire of an evening may 
be taken as suflicient evidence. I protest I cannot be- 
come pathetic over the Highland hut. I have sat in 
these turfen dwellings, amid the surgings of blue smoke, 
and received hospitable welcome, and found amongst the 
inmates good sense, industry, family affection, content- 
ment, piety, happiness. And when I have heard phi- 
lanthropists, with more zeal than discretion maintain 
that these dwellings are a disgrace to the country in 
which they are found, I have thought of districts of 
great cities which I have seen, — within the sound of 
the rich man's chariot wheels, within hearing of multi- 
tudinous Sabbath bells, — of evil scents and sights and 



238 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

sounds ; of windows stuffed with rags ; of female faces 
that look out on you as out of a sadder Inferno than that 
of Dante's ; of faces of men containing the debris of the 
entire decalogue, faces which hurt you more than a blow 
would ; of infants poisoned with gin, of children bred for 
the prison and the hulks. Depend upon it there are 
worse odors than peat smoke, worse next-door neighbors 
than a cow or a brood of poultry ; and although a couple 
of girls dragging a harrow be hardly in accordance with 
our modern notions, yet we ne-ed not forget that there 
are worse employment for girls than even that. I do 
not stand up for the Highland hut ; but in one of these 
smoky cabins I would a thousand-fold rather spend my 
days than in the Cowgate of Edinburgh, or in one of the 
streets that radiate from Seven Dials. 

After travelling three or four days, I beheld on the 
other side of a long, blue, river-like loch the house of 
the Landlord. From the point at which I now paused, 
a boat could have taken me across in half an hour, but 
as the road wound round the top of the Loch, I had yet 
some eight or ten miles to drive before my journey was 
accomplished. Meantime the Loch was at ebb and the 
sun was setting. On the hillside, on my left as I drove, 
stretched a long street of huts covered with smoky 
wreaths, and in front of each a strip of cultivated ground 
ran down to the road which skirted the shore. Potatoes 
grew in one strip or lot, turnips in a second, corn in a 
third, and as these crops were in different stages of ad- 
vancement, the entire hillside, from the street of huts 
downward, resembled one of those counterpanes which 
thrifty housewives manufacture by sewing together patches 
of different patterns. Along the road running at the 
back of the huts a cart was passing ; on the moory hill 



A HIGHLAND VILLAGE. 239 

behind, a flock of slieep, driven by men and dogs, was 
contracting and expanding itself like quicksilver. The 
women were knitting at the hut doors, the men were at 
work in the cultivated patches in front. On all this 
scene of cheerful and fortunate industry, on men and 
women, on turnips, oats, and potatoes, on cottages set in 
azure fdms of peat-reek, the rosy light was striking, — 
making a pretty spectacle enough. From the whol^ 
hillside breathed peace, contentment, happiness, and a 
certain sober beauty of usefulness. Man and nature 
seemed in perfect agreement and harmony, — man willing 
to labor, nature to yield increase. Down to the head of 
the Loch the road sloped rapidly, and at the very head a 
small village had established itself. It contained an inn, 
a school-house, in which divine service was held on 
Sundays ; a smithy, a merchant's shop, — all traders 
are called merchants in Skye, — and, by the side of a 
stream which came brawling down from rocky steep to 
steep, stood a corn-mill, the big wheel lost in a watery 
mist of its own raising, the door and windows dusty with 
meal. Behind the village lay a stretch of black moor- 
land intersected by drains and trenches, and from the 
black huts which seemed to have grown out of the moor, 
and the spaces of sickly green here and there, one could 
see that the desolate and forbidding region had its colo- 
nists, and that they were valiantly attempting to wring a 
sustenance out of it. Who were the squatters on the 
black moorland? Had they accepted their hard con- 
ditions as a matter of choice, or had they been banished 
there by a superior power ? Did the dweller in those 
outlying huts bear the same relation to the villagers, 
or the flourishing cotters on the hillside, that the gypsy 
bears to the English peasant, or the red Indian to the 



240 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

Canadian farmer? I had no one to inform me at the 
time ; meanwhile the sunset fell on these remote dwell- 
ings, lending them w'hat beauty and amelioration of color 
it could, making a drain sparkle for a moment, turning a 
far-off pool into gold leaf, and rendering, by contrast of 
universal warmth and glow, yet more beautiful the smoke 
which swathed the houses. Yet after all the impression 
made upon one was cheerless enough. Sunset goes but 
a little way in obviating human wretchedness. It fires 
the cottage window, but it cannot call to life the corpse 
within ; it can sparkle on the chain of a prisoner, but 
with all its sparkling it does not make the chain one 
whit the lighter. Misery is often picturesque, but the 
picturesqueness is in the eyes of others, not in her own. 
The black moorland and the banished huts abode in my 
mind during the remainder of my drive. 

Everything about a man is characteristic, more or 
less ; and in the house of the Landlord I found that sin- 
gular mixture of hemispheres which I had before noticed 
in his talk and in his way of looking at times. His house 
was plain enough externally, but his furniture was curi- 
ous and far-brought. The interior of his porch was 
adorned with heads of stags and tusks of elephants. He 
would show you Highland relics, and curiosities from 
sacked Eastern palaces. He had the tiny porcelain cup 
out of which Prince Charles drank tea at Kingsburgh, 
and the signet ring which was stripped from the dead 
fingers of Tippoo Saib. In his gun-room were modern 
breech-loader and revolvers, and matchlocks from China 
and Nepaul. On the walls were Lochaber axes, clay- 
mores, and targets that might have seen service at Inver- 
lochy, hideous creases, Afghan daggers, curiously-curved 
swords, scabbards thickly crusted with gems. In the 



THE LANDLORD'S PETS. 241 

library the last new novel leaned against the " Institutes 
of Menu." On the di'awing-room table, beside carte-de- 
visite books, were ivory card-cases wrought by the patient 
Hindoo artificer as finely as we work our laces, Chinese 
puzzles that baffled all European comprehension, and 
comical squab-faced deities in silver and bronze. "While 
the Landlord was absent, I could fancy these strangely 
assorted articles striking one with a sense of incongi'uity : 
but when at home, each seemed a portion of himself. 
He was related as closely to the Indian god as to Prince 
Charles's cup. The ash and birch of the Highlands 
danced before his eyes, the palm stood in his imagination 
and memory. 

And then he surrounded himself with all kinds of 
pets, and lived with them on the most intimate terms. 
When he entered the breakfast-room his terriers barked 
and frisked and jumped about him: his great black hare- 
hound, Maida, got up from the rug on which it had been 
basking and thrust its sharp nose into his hand; his 
canaries broke into emulous music, as if sunshine had 
come into the room ; the parrot in the porch clambered 
along the cage with horny claws, settled itself on its 
perch, bobbed its head up and down for a moment, and 
was seized with hooping-cough. When he went out the 
black hare-hound followed at his heel ; the peacock, 
strutting on the gravel in the shelter of the larches, un- 
furled its starry fan ; in the stable his horses turned 
round to smell his clothes and to have their foreheads 
stroked ; melodious thunder broke from the dog-kennel 
when he came ; and at his approach his falcons did not 
withdraw haughtily, as if in human presence there was 
profanation ; they listened to his voice, and a gentler 
something tamed for a moment the fierce cairngorms of 
11 p 



242 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

their eyes. When others came near they ruffled their 
plumage and uttered sharp cries of anger. 

After breakfast it was his habit to carry the parrot out 
to a long iron garden -seat in front of the house, — where, 
if sunshine was to be had at all, you were certain to find 
it, — and placing the cage beside him, smoke a cheroot. 
The parrot would clamber about the cage, suspended 
head downwards would take crafty stock of you with an 
eye which had perhaps looked out on the world for a 
century or so, and then, righting itself, peremptorily in- 
sist that Polly should put on the kettle, and that the boy 
should shut up the grog. On one special morning, while 
the Landlord was smoking and the parrot whooping and 
whistling, several men, dressed in rough pilot-cloth which 
had seen much service and known much darning, came 
along the walk and respectfully uncovered. Returning 
their salutation, the Landlord threw away the end of his 
cheroot and went forward to learn their message. The 
conversation was in Gaelic; slow and gradual at first, 
it quickened anon, and broke into gusts of altercation ; 
and on these occasions I noticed that the Landlord would 
turn impatiently on his heel, march a pace or two back 
to the house, and then, wheeling round, return to the 
charge. He argued in the unknown tongue, gesticulated, 
was evidently impressing something on his auditors which 
they were unwilling to receive, for at intervals they 
would look in one another's faces, — a look plainly im- 
plying, "Did you ever hear the like?" and give utter- 
ance to a murmured chit, chit, chit of dissent and humble 
protestation. At last the matter got itself amicably set- 
tled, the deputation — each man making a short sudden 
duck before putting on his bonnet — withdrew, and the 
Landlord came back to the parrot, which had, now with 



THE LANDLORD'S VISITOES. 243 

one eye, now with anothe>, been watching the proceed- 
ing. He sat down with a slight air of annoyance. 

" These fellows are wanting more meal," he said, " and 
one or two are pretty deep in my books already." 

" Do you, then, keep regular accounts with them ? " 

" Of course. I give nothing for nothing. I wish to 
QO them as much good as I can. They are a good deal 
like my old ryots, only the ryot was more supple and 
obsequious." 

" Where do your friends come from ? " I asked. 

" From the village over there," pointing across the 
narrow blue loch. " Pretty Polly ! Polly ! " 

The parrot was climbing up and down the cage, taking 
hold of the wires wdth beak and claw as it did so. 

" I wish to know something of your villagers. The 
cotters on the hillside seem comfortable enough, but I 
wish to know something of the black land and the lonely 
huts behind." 

" O," said he, laughing, " that is my penal settlement, 
— I '11 drive you over to-morrow." He then got up, 
tossed a stone into the shrubbery, after which Maida 
dashed, thrust his hands into his breeches pocket for a 
moment, and marched into the house. 

Next morning we drove across to the village, and 
pretty enough it looked as we alighted. The big water- 
wheel of the mill whirred industrious music, flour flying 
about the door and windows. Two or three people were 
standing at the merchant's shop. At the smithy a horse 
was haltered, and within were brilliant showers of sparks 
and the merry clink of hammers. The sunshine made 
pure amber the pools of the tumbling burn, and in one 
of these a girl was rinsing linen, the light touching her 
hair into a richer color. Our arrival at the imi created 



244 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

some little stir. The dusty miller came out, the smith 
came to the door rubbing down his apron with a horny 
palm, the girl stood upright by the burn-side shading her 
eyes Avith her hand, one of the men at the merchant's 
shop went within to tell the news, the laborers in the 
fields round about stopped work to stare. The machine 
was no sooner put to rights and the horses taken round 
to the stable, than the mistress of the house complained 
that the roof was leaky, and she and the Landlord went 
in to inspect the same. Left alone for a little, I could 
observe that, seeing my friend had arrived, the people 
were resolved to make some use of him, and here and 
there I noticed them laying down their crooked spades 
and coming down towards the inn. One old woman, with 
a white handkerchief tied round her head, sat down on 
a stone opposite, and when the Landlord appeared, — 
the matter of the leaky roof having been arranged, — she 
rose and dropped a courtesy. She had a complaint to 
make, a benefit to ask, a wrong to be redressed. I could 
not of course understand a word of the conversation, 
but curiously sharp and querulous was her voice, with 
a slight suspicion of the whine of the mendicant in it, 
and every now and then she would give a deep sigh, and 
smooth down her apron with both her hands. I suspect 
the old lady gained her object ; for when the Landlord 
cracked his joke at parting, the most curious sunshine of 
merriment came into the withered features, lighting them 
up and changing them, and giving one, for a flying sec- 
ond, some idea of what she must have been in her middle 
age, perhaps in her early youth, when she as well as other 
girls had a sweetheart. 

In turn we visited the merchant's shop, the smithy, and 
the mill ; then we passed the school-house, — which was 



THE PENAL SETTLEMENT. 245 

one confused murmur, the sharp voice of the teacher 
striking through at intervals, — and turning up a narrow 
road, came upon the black region and the banished huts. 
The cultivated hillside was shining in sunlight, the cot- 
tages smoking, the people at work in their crofts, every- 
thing looking blithe and pleasant ; and under the bright 
sky and the happy weather the penal settlement did not 
look nearly so forbidding as it had done when, under the 
sunset, I had seen it a few evenings previously. The 
houses were rude, but they seemed sufficiently weather- 
tight. Each was set down in a little oasis of cultivation, 
a little circle in which by labor the sour land had been 
coaxed into a smile of green ; each small domain was 
enclosed by a low turfen wall, and on the top of one of 
these a wild goat-looking sheep was feeding, which, as 
we approached, jumped down with an alarmed bleat, and 
then turned to gaze on the intruders. The land was sour 
and stony, the dwellings framed of the rudest materials, 
and the people, — for they all came forward to meet him, 
and at each turfen wall the landlord held a levee, — espe- 
cially the older people, gave one the idea somehow of 
worn-out tools. In some obscure way they reminded one 
of bent and warped oars, battered spades, blunted pick- 
axes. 

On every figure was written hard, imremitting toil 
Toil had twisted their frames, seamed and puckered their 
leathern faces, made their hands horny, bleached their 
grizzled locks. Your fancy had to run back along years 
and years of labor before it could arrive at the original 
boy or girl. Still they were cheerful-looking after a sort, 
contented, and loquacious withal. The man took off his 
bonnet, the woman dropped her courtesy, before pouring 
into the Landlord's ear how the wall of the house wanted 



246 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

mending, how a neighbor's sheep had come into the com, — ■ 
had been driven into the corn out of foul spite and envy- 
it was suspected, — how new seed would be required for 
next year's sowing, how the six missing fleeces had been 
found in the hut of the old soldier across the river, and 
all the other items which made up their world. And the 
Landlord, his black hound couched at his feet, would sit 
down on a stone or lean against the turf wall and listen 
to the whole of it, and consult as to the best way to 
repair the decaying house, and discover how defendant's 
sheep came into complainant's corn, and give judgment, 
and promise new seed to old Donald, and walk over to 
the soldier's and pluck the heart out of the mystery of 
the missing fleeces. And going in and out amongst 
his people, his functions were manifold. He was not 
Landlord only, — he was leech, lawyer, divine. He 
prescribed medicine, he set broken bones, and tied up 
sprained ankles ; he was umpire in a hundred petty 
quarrels, and damped out wherever he went every flame 
of wrath. Nor, when it was needed, was he without 
ghostly counsel. On his land he would permit no un- 
baptized child ; if Donald was drunk and brawling at a 
fair, he would, when the inevitable headache and nausea 
were gone, drop in and improve the occasion, to Donald's 
much discomfiture and his many blushes ; and with the 
bedridden woman or the palsied man, who for years had 
sat in the corner of the hut as constantly as a statue sits 
within its niche, — just where the motty sunbeam from 
the pane with its great knob of bottle-green struck 
him, — he held serious conversations, and uttered words 
which come usually from the lips of a clergyman. 

We then went through the cottages on the cultivated 
hillside, and there another series of levees were held. 



THE COTTAGES ON THE HILLSmE. 247 

One cotter complained that his neighbor had taken ad- 
vantage of him in this or the other matter ; another 
man's good name had been aspersed by a scandalous 
tongue, and ample apology must be made, else the suf- 
ferer would bring the asperser before the sheriff. Nor- 
man had borrowed for a day Neil's plough, had broken 
the shaft, and when requested to make rtnaration, had 
refused in terms too opprobrious to be repeated. The 
man from Sleat, who had a year or two ago come to 
reside in these parts, and with whom the world had gone 
prosperously, was minded at next fair to buy another 
cow, — would he therefore be allowed to rent the croft 
which lay alongside the one which he already possessed ? 
To these cotters the Landlord gave attentive ear, standing 
beside the turf dike, leaning against the walls of their 
houses, sitting down inside the peat smoke, — the chil- 
dren gathered together in the farthest corner, and re- 
garding him with no little awe. And so he came to 
know all the affairs of his people, — who was in debt, 
who was waging a doubtful battle with the world, who 
had money in the bank ; and going daily amongst them 
he was continually engaged in warning, expostulation, en- 
couragement, rebuke. Nor was he always sunshine, — 
he was occasionally lightning, too. The tropical tornado, 
which unroofs houses and splits trees, was within the 
possibilities of his moods, as well as the soft wind which 
caresses the newly-yeaned lamb. Against greed, lazi- 
ness, dishonesty, he flamed like a seven-times heated 
furnace. When he found that argument had no effect 
on the obstinate or the pig-headed, he suddenly changed 
his tactics, and descended in a shower of chaff, which is 
to the Gael an unknown and terrible power, dissolving 
opposition as salt dissolves a snail. 



248 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

The last cotter had been seen, the last levee had been 
held, and we then climbed up to the crown of the hill 
to visit the traces of an old fortification, or dicn, as the 
Skye people call it. These ruins, and they are thickly 
scattered over the island, are supposed to be of immense 
antiquity, — so old, that Ossian may have sung in each 
to a circle of Fingalian chiefs. When we reached the 
diin, — a loose congregation of mighty stones, scattered 
in a circular form, with some rude remnants of an en- 
trance and a covered way, — we sat down, and the Land- 
lord hghted a cheroot. Beneath lay the little village 
covered with smoke. Far away to the right, Skye 
stretched into ocean, pale headland after headland. In 
front, over a black wilderness of moor, rose the conical 
forms of Macleod's Tables, and one thought of the " rest- 
less bright Atlantic plain" beyond, the endless swell 
and shimmer of watery ridges, the clouds of sea birds, 
the sudden glistening upheaval of a whale and its dis- 
appearance, the smoky trail of a steamer on the horizon, 
the tacking of white-sailed craft. On the left, there was 
nothing but moory wilderness and hill, with something 
on a slope flashing in the sunshine like a diamond. A 
falcon palpitating in the intense blue above, the hare- 
hound cocked her ears and looked out alertly, the Land- 
lord with his field-glass counted the sheep feeding on the 
hillside a couple of miles off. Suddenly he closed the 
glass, and lay back on the heather, puffing a column of 
white smoke into the air. 

" I suppose," said I, " your going in and out amongst 
your tenants to-day is very much the kind of thing you 
used to do in India?" 

"Exactly. I know these fellows, every man of them, 
— and they know me. We get on very well together. 



THE PENAL SETTLEMENT. 249 

I know everything they do. I know all their secrets, 
all their family histories, everything they wish and every- 
thing they fear. I think I have done them some good 
since I came amongst them." 

"But," said I, "I wish you to explain to me your 
system of penal servitude, as you call it. In what re- 
spect do the people on the cultivated hillside differ from 
the people in the black ground behind the village ? " 

" Willingly. But I must premise that the giving away 
of money in charity is, in nine cases out of ten, tanta- 
mount to throwing money into the fire. It does no^ood 
to the bestower : it does absolute harm to the receiver. 
You see I have taken the management of these people 
into my own hands. I have built a school-house for 
them, — on which we will look in and overhaul on our 
way down, — I have built a shop, as you see, a smithy, 
and a mill. I have done everything for them, and I 
insist that, when a man becomes my tenant, he shall pay 
me rent. If I did not so insist I should be doing an 
injury to myself and to him. The people on the hill- 
side pay me rent ; not a man Jack of them is at this 
moment one farthing in arrears. The people down there 
in the black land behind the village, which I am anxious 
to reclaim, don't {)ay rent. They are broken men, broken 
sometimes by their own fault and laziness, sometimes by 
culpable imprudence, sometimes by stress of circum- 
stances. When I settle a man there I build him a house, 
make him a present of a bit of land, give him tools, 
should he require them, and set him to work. He has 
the entire control of all he can produce. He improves 
my land, and can, if he is industrious, make a comfortable 
living. I won't have a pauper on my places the very 
sight of a pauper sickens me." 
11* 



250 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

"But why do you call the black lands your penal 
settlement ? " 

Here the Landlord laughed. "Because, should any 
of the crofters on the hillside, either from laziness or 
misconduct, fall into arrears, I transport him at once. I 
punish him by sending him among the people who pay 
no rent. It's like taking the stripes off a sergeant's 
arm and desfradino: him to the ranks ; and if there is 
any spirit in the man he tries to regain his old position. 
I wish my people to respect themselves, and to hold 
poverty in horror." 

" And do many get back to the hillside again ? " 

" yes ! and they are all the better for their tempo- 
rary banishment. I don't wish residence there to be 
permanent in any case. When one of these fellows gets 
on, makes a little money, I have him up here at once 
among the rent-paying people. I draw the line at a 
cow." 

"How?" 

" When a man by industry or by self-denial has saved 
money enough to buy a cow, I consider the black land is 
no longer the place for him. He is able to pay rent, and 
he must pay it. I brought an old fellow up here the 
other week, and very unwilling he was to come. He 
had bought himself a cow, and so I marched him up here 
at once. I wish to stir all these fellows uj), to put into 
them a little honest pride and self-respect." 

" And how do they take to your system ? " 

" 0, they grumbled a good deal at first, and thought 
their lines were hard ; but discovering that my schemes 
have been for their benefit, they are content enough now. 
In these black lands, you observe, I not only rear corn 
and potatoes, I rear and train men, which is the most 



THE SCHOOL. 251 

valuable crop of all. But let us be going. I wish you 
to see my scholars. I think I have got one or two smart 
lads down there." 

In a short time we reached the school-house, a plain, 
substantial-looking building, standing midway between 
the inn and the banished huts. As it was arranged that 

o 

neither schoolmaster nor scholar should have the slightest 
idea that they were to be visited that day, we were en- 
abled to see the school in its ordinary aspect. "When we 
entered the master came forward and shook hands with 
the Landlord, the boys pulled their red forelocks, the 
girls dropped their best courtesies. Sitting down on a 
form I noted the bare walls, a large map hanging on one 
side, the stove with a heap of peats near it, the ink- 
smeared bench and the row of girls' heads, black, red, 
yellow, and brown, surmounting it, and the boys, bare- 
footed and in tattered kilts, gathered near the window. 
The girls regarded us with a shy, curious gaze, which 
was not ungraceful ; and in several of the freckled faces 
there were the rudiments of beauty, or of comeliness at 
least. The eyes of all, boys as well as girls, kept twink- 
ling over our persons, taking silent note of everything. 
I don't think I ever before was the subject of so much 
curiosity. One was pricked all over by quick-glancing 
eyes as by pins. We had come to examine the school, 
and the ball opened by a display of copy-books. Open- 
ing these, we found pages covered with " Emulation is a 
generous passion" " jEmancipation does not make man" 
in veiy fair and legible handwriting. Expressing our 
satisfaction, the schoolmaster bowed low, and the prick- 
ling of the thirty or forty curious eyes became yet more 
keen and rapid. The schoolmaster then called for those 
who wished to be examined in geography, — very much 



252 A SUMMER m SKYE. 

as a colonel might seek volunteers for a forlorn hope, — 
and in a trice six scholars, kilted, of various ages and 
sizes, but all shock-headed and ardent, were drawn up in 
line in front of the large map. A ruler was placed in 
the hand of a little fellow at the end, who, with his eyes 
fixed on the schoolmaster and his body bent forward 
eagerly, seemed as waiting the signal to start off in a 
race. " Number one, point out river Tagus." Number 
one charged the Peninsula with his ruler as ardently 
as his great-grandfather in all probability charged the 
French at Quebec. " Through what country does the 
Tagus flow ? " " Portugal." " What is the name of the 
capital city ? " " Lisbon." Number one having accom- 
plished his devoir, the ruler was handed on to number 
two, who traced the course of the Danube, and answered 
several questions thereanent with considerable intelli- 
gence. Number five was a little fellow ; he was asked 
to point out Portree, and as the Western Islands hung 
too high in the north for him to reach, he jumped at 
them. He went into the North Sea the first time, but 
on his second attempt he smote Skye with his ruler very 
neatly. Numbers three, four, and six acquitted them- 
selves creditably ; number four boggling a little deal 
about Constantinople, much to the vexation of the school- 
master. Slates were then produced, and the six geogra- 
phers — who were the cream of the school, I dare say — 
were prepared for arithmetical action. As I was exam- 
iner, and had no desire to get into deep waters, the 
efforts of my kilted friends were, at my request, confined 
to the good old rule of simple addition. The school- 
master called out ten or eleven ranks of figures, and then 
cried add. Six swishes of the slate-pencil were heard, 
and then began the arithmetical tug of war. Each face 



THE SCHOOL. 253 

was immediately hidden behind a slate, and we could 
hear the quick tinkle of pencils. All at once there was 
a hurried swish, and the red-head, who had boggled 
about Constantinople, fiaslied round his slate on me with 
the summation fairly worked out. Flash went another 
slate, then another, till the six were held out. All the 
answers corresponded, and totting up the figures I found 
them correct. Then books were procured, and we lis- 
tened to English reading. In a loud tone of voice, as if 
ttiey were addressing some one on an opposite hillside, 
and with barbarous intonation, the little fellows read off 
about a dozen sentences each. Now and again a big 
word brought a reader to grief, as a tall fence brings 
a steeple-chaser ; now and again a reader went through 
a word as a hunter goes through a hedge which he can- 
not clear, — but, on the whole, they deserved the com- 
mendation which they received. The Landlord expressed 
his satisfaction, and mentioned that he had left at tlie inn 
two baskets of gooseberries for the scholars. The school- 
master again bowed ; and although the eyes of the 
scholars were as bright and curious as before, they had 
laid their heads together, and were busily whispering 
now. 

The schools in Skye bear the same relationship to the 
other educational establishments of the country that a 
turf-hut bears to a stone-and-lime cottage. These schools 
are scattered thinly up and down the Island, and the 
pupils are unable to attend steadily on account of the 
distances they have to travel, and the minor agricultural 
avocations in which they are at intervals engaged. The 
schoolmaster is usually a man of no surpassing intel- 
ligence or acquirement; he is wretchedly remunerated, 
and his educational aids and appliances, such as books, 



254 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

maps, &c., are defective. But still a turf-hut is better 
than no shelter, and a Skye school is better than no 
school at all. The school, for instance, which we have 
just visited was an authentic light in the darkness. 
There boys and girls were taught reading, writing, and 
ciphering, — plain and homely accomplishments it is true, 
but accomplishments that bear the keys of all the doors 
that lead to wealth and knowledge. The boy or girl 
who can read, write, and cast up accounts deftly, is not 
badly equipped for the battle of life ; and although tlie 
school which the Landlord has established is plain and 
unostentatious in its forms and modes of instruction, it at 
least, with tolerable success, teaches these. For the uses 
made of them by the pupils in after life, the pupils are 
themselves responsible. 



VIEW FROM THE DOG-CART. 255 



ORBOST AND DUNVEGAN. 

PUNCTUALLY at nine next morning there was a 
grating of wheels on the gravel, and Malcolm and 
his dog-cart were at the door. After a little delay I 
took my place on the vehicle and we drove off. Mal- 
colm was a thick-set, good-humored, red haired and 
whiskered little fellow, who could be silent for half a day 
if needed, but who could speak, and speak to the point, 
too, when required. When driving, and especially when 
the chestnut mare exhibited any diminution of speed, he 
kept up a running fire of ejaculations. " Go on," he 
would say, as he shook the reins, for the whip he merci- 
fully spared, " what are you thinking about ? " " Hoots ! 
chit, chit, chit ! I 'm ashamed of you ! " " Now then. 
Hoots ! " and these reproaches seemed to touch the 
mare's heart, for at every ejaculation she made a dash 
forward as if the whip had touched her. 

On the way from Grishornish to Dun vegan, about a 
couple of miles from the latter place, a road branches off 
to the right and runs away downward througli the 
heathery waste ; and about forty yards onward you come 
to a bridge spanning a gully, and into this gully three 
streams leap and become one, and then the sole stream 
flows also to the right with shallow fall and brawling 
rapid, the companion of the descending road. The road 
up to the bridge is steep, but it is steeper beyond, and at 
the bridge Malcolm jumped down and walked alongside 
with the reins in his hands. In the slow progression 



256 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

your eye naturally follows the road and the stream; 
and beyond the flank of a hill slopmg gradually down to 
the purple gloom of undulating moorland, you catch a 
glimpse of a bit of blue sea, some white broken cliffs that 
drop down into it ; and, leaning on these cliffs, a great 
green sunny strath, with a white dot of a house upon it. 
The glimpse of sea, and white cliffs, and stretch of sunny 
greenness is pleasant ; the hill which you have yet to 
climb, keeps the sun from you, and all around are low 
heathery eminences. You stare at the far-off sunlit 
greenness, and having satisfied yourself therewith, begin 
to examine the ground above and on either side of the 
bridge, and find it possessed of much pastoral richness 
and variety. The main portion is covered with heather, 
but near you there are clumps of ferns, and further back 
are soft banks and platforms of verdure on which kine 
might browse and ruminate, and which only require the 
gilding of sunshine to make them beautifuL " What 
bridge is this?" I asked of Malcolm, who was still 
trudging alongside with the reins in his hand. " The 
Fairy Bridge," — and then I was told that the fairy sits 
at sunset on the green knolls and platforms of pasture 
chirming and singing songs to the cows ; and that when 
a traveller crosses the bridge, and toils up the hill, she 
is sure to accompany him. As this was our own course, 
I asked, " Is the fairy often seen now ? " " Not often. 
It 's the old people who know about her. The shepherds 
sometimes hear her singing when they are coming down 
the hill ; and years ago, a pedler was found lying across 
the road up there dead; and it was thought that the 
fairy had walked along with him. But, indeed, I never 
saw or heard her myself, — only that is what the old 
people say." And so in a modern dog-cart you are 



THE SPOILING OF THE DIKES. 257 

slowly passing through one of the haunted places in 
Skye! 

I fancy Malcolm must have seen that this kind of 
talk interested me. " Did you ever hear, sir, about 
the Battle of the Spoiling of the Dikes down at Trompon 
Kirk, yonder?" and he pointed with his whip to the 
yellow-green strath which broke down in cliifs to the 
sea. 

I answered that I never had, and Malcolm's narrative 
flowed on at once. 

"You see, sir, there was a feud between the Mac- 
don aids of the Mainland and the Macleods of Trotter- 
nish ; and one Sunday, when the Macleods were in 
church, the Macdonalds came at full of tide, unknown to 
any one, and fastened their boats to the arched rocks on 
the shore, — for it 's a strange coast down there, full of 
caves and natural bridges and arches. Well, after they 
had fastened their boats, they surrounded the church, 
secured the door, and set it on fire. Every one was 
burned that Sunday except one woman, who squeezed 
herself through a window — it was so narrow that she 
left one of her breasts behind her — and escaped carry- 
ing the news. She raised the country with her crying 
and the sight of her bloody clothes. The people — 
although it was Sunday — rose, men and women, and 
came down to the burning church, and there the battle 
began. The men of Macleod's country fought, and the 
women picked up the blunted arrows, sharpened them on 
the stones, and then gave them to the men. The Mac- 
donalds were beaten at last, and made for their boats. 
But by this time it was ebb of tide; and what did they see 
but the boats in which they had come, and which they 
had fastened to the rocky arches, hanging in the air I 

Q 



258 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

Like an otter, when its retreat to the sea is cut off, the 
Macdonalds turned on the men of Macleod's country 
and fought till the last of them fell, and in the sheughs 
of the sand their blood was running down red into the 
sea. At that time the tide came farther in than it does 
now, and the people had built a turf dike to keep it 
back from their crops. Then they took the bodies of 
the Macdonalds and laid them down side by side at the 
foot of the dike, and tumbled it over on the top of them. 
That was the way they were buried. And after they 
had tumbled the dike they were vexed, for they minded 
then that the sea might come in and destroy their crops. 
That 's the reason that the battle is called the Battle of 
the Spoiled Dikes." 

"The men of Macleod's country would regret the 
spoiling of the dikes, as Bruce the battle-axe with which, 
on the evening before Bannockburn, and in the seeing of 
both armies, he cracked the skull of the English knight 
who came charging down upon him." 

Undiverted by my remark, Malcolm went on, " Maybe, 
sir, you have seen the Sciur of Eig as you came past in 
the steamer ? " 

" Yes, and I know the story. The Macdonalds were 
cooped up in a cave, and the Macleods ranged over the 
island and could find no trace of them. They then in 
high dudgeon returned to their boats, meaning to depart 
next morning. There was a heavy fall of snow during 
the night, was there not ? and just when the Macleods 
were about to sail, the figure of a man, who had come 
out to see if the invaders were gone, was discerned on 
the top of the Sciur, against the sky line. The Macleods 
returned, and by the footprints in the snow they tracked 
the man to his hiding-place. They then heaped up 



MACLEOD'S TABLES. 259 

heath and what timber they could procure, at the mouth 
of the cave, applied fire, and suflfocated all who had 
therein taken shelter. Is that not it?" 

" The Macdonalds first burned the church at Trompon 
down there. The bones of the Macdonalds are lying in 
the cave to this day, they say. I should like to see 
them." 

" But don't you think it was a dreadful revenge ? 
Eig was one of the safe places of the Macdonalds ; and 
the people in the cave were chiefly old men, women, 
and children. Don't you think it was a very barbarous 
act, Malcolm ? " 

"I don't know," said Malcolm; "I am a Macleod 
myself." 

By the time I had heard the story of Lady Grange, 
who sleeps in the Trompon churchyard, we had toiled 
pretty well up the steep ascent. On our way we heard 
no fairy singing to the kine, nor did any unearthly figure 
accompany us. Perhaps the witchery of the setting sun 
was needed. By the time we reached the top of the 
hill the pyramidical forms of Macleod's Tables were 
distinctly visible, and then Malcolm took his seat beside 
me in the dog-cart. 

Macleod's Tables, two hills as high as Arthur's Seat, 
flat at the top as any dining-table in the country, — from 
which peculiar conformation indeed they draw their 
names, — and covered deep into spring by a table-cloth 
of snow ; Macleod's Maidens, three spires of rock rising 
sheer out of the sea, shaped like women, around whose 
feet the foamy wreaths are continually forming, fleeting, 
and disappearing — what magic in the names of rocky 
spire and flat-topped hill to him who bears the name of 
Macleod, and who can call them his own! What is 



260 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

modern wealth — association-less, without poetry, melting 
like snow in the hot hand of a spendthrift — compared to 
that old inheritance of land, which is patent to the eye, 
which bears your name, around which legends gather, — 
all vital to you as your great-grandmother's blue eyes 
and fair hair; as your great-grandfather's hot temper and 
the corrugation -of his forehead when he frowned ! These 
bold landmarks of family possession must be regarded 
with peculiar interest by the family. They make the 
white sheet on which you — a shadow of fifty years or 
thereby — are projected by the camera obscura of fate. 
The Tables and the Maidens remain forever bearing your 
name, while you — the individual Macleod — are as 
transitory as the mist-wreath of the morning which 
melts on the one, or the momentary shape of wind-blown 
foam which perishes on the base of the other. The value 
of these things is spiritual, and cannot be affected by the 
click of the auctioneer's hammer, or the running of the 
hour-glass sand on the lawyer's table after the title- 
deeds have been read and the bids are being made. 
Wealth is mighty, but it can no more buy these things 
than it can buy love, or reverence, or piety. Jones may 
buy the Tables and the Maidens, but they do not own 
him ; he is forever an alien : they wear the ancient 
name, they dream the ancient dream. When poverty 
has stripped your livery from all your servants, they 
remain faithful. When an Airlie is about to die, with 
tuck of drum, they say, a ghostly soldier marches round 
the castle. Rothschild, with all his millions, could not 
buy that drummer's services. What is the use of buying 
an estate to-day ? It is never wholly yours ; the old 
owner holds part possession with you. It is like marry- 
ing a widow ; you hold her heart, but you hold it in 



THE HOUSE AT ORBOST. 261 

partnership with the dead. I should rather be the plain- 
est English yeoman whose family has been in possession 
of a farm since the Heptarchy than be the richest banker 
in Europe. The majority of men are like Arabs, their 
tents are pitched here to-night and struck to-morrow. 
Those families only who have held lands for centuries 
can claim an abiding home. In such fiimilies there is a 
noble sense of continuity, of the unbroken onflowing of 
life. The pictures and the furniture speak of forefather 
and foremother. Your ancestor's name is on your books, 
and you see the pencil-marks which he has placed against 
the passages that pleased him. The necklace your 
daughter wears heaved on the breast of the ancestress 
from whom she draws her smile and her eyes. The 
rookery that caws to-night in the sober sunset cawed in 
the ears of the representative of your house some half- 
dozen generations back — the very same in every respect, 
't is the individual rooks only that have changed. The 
full-foliaged murmur of the M'oods shape your name, and 
yours only. As for these Macleods 

" That 's Orbost, sir, the house under the hill," said 
Malcolm, pointing with his whip, and obviously tired of 
the prolonged silence, " and yonder on the left are the 
Cuchullins. The sea is down there, but you cannot see 
it from this. We '11 be there in half an hour," and ex- 
actly in half an hour, with Macleod's Tables behind us, 
we passed the garden and the offices, and alighted on the 
daisied sward before the house. 

After I had wandered about for an hour I made up my 
mind that, had I the choice, I should rather live at Orbost 
than at any other house in Skye. And yet, at Orbost, 
the house itself is the only thing that can reasonably be 
objected to. In the first place, it is one of those elegant 



262 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

expressionless houses in the Italian style with which one 
is familiar in the suburban districts of large cities, and as 
Buch it is quite out of keeping with the scenery and the 
spiritual atmosphere of the island. It is too modern, and 
villa like. It is as innocent of a legend as Pall Mall. 
It does not believe in ghost stories. It has a dandified 
and sceptical look ; and as it has not taken to the island, 
the island has not taken to it. Around it trees have not 
grown well ; they are mere stunted trunks, bare, hoary, 
wind-writhen. There is not a lichen or discoloration on 
its smoothly-chiselled walls ; not a single chimney or 
gable has been shrouded with affectionate ivy. It looks 
like a house which has " cut " the locality, and which the 
locality has " cut " in return. In the second place, the 
house is stupidly situated. It turns a cold shoulder on 
the grand broken coast ; on the ten miles of sparkling sea 
on which the sun is showering millions of silver coins, ever 
a new shower as the last one disappears ; on Rum, with a 
veil of haze on its highest peak ; on the lyrical CuchuUins 
— for although of the rigidest granite, they always give 
one the idea of passion and tumult ; on the wild headlands 
of Bracadale, fading one after another, dimmer and 
dimmer, into distance ; — on all this the house turns a 
cold shoulder, and on a meadow on which some dozen 
colts are feeding, and on a low strip of moory hill beyond, 
from which the cotters draw their peats, it stares intently 
with all its doors and windows. liight about face. At- 
tention ! That done, the most fastidious could object to 
nothing at Orbost, on the point of beauty at least. The 
faces of the Skye people, continually set like flints 
against assaults of wind and rain, are all lined and puck- 
ered about the eyes ; and in Skye houses you naturally 
wish to see something of the same weather-beaten look. 



THE HOUSE AT ORBOST. 263 

Orbost, with its smooth front and unwinking windows, 
outrages the fitness of things. 

Of the interior no one can complain, for on entcrino" 
you are at once surrounded by a proper antiquity and 
venerableness. The dining-room is large and somewhat 
insufficiently lighted, and on the walls hang two of Rae- 
burn's half-lengths — the possession of which is in itself 
the voucher of a family's respectability — and several 
portraits of ladies with obsolete waists and head-dresses, 
and military gentlemen in the uniform of last century. 
The furniture is dark and massy, — the mahogany draw- 
ing depth and color from age and usage ; the carpet has 
been worn so bare that the pattern has become nearly 
obliterated. The room was not tidy, I was pleased to 
see. A small table placed near the window was covered 
with a litter of papers; in one corner were guns and 
fishing-rods, and a fishing-basket laid near them on the 
floor ; and the round dusty mirror above the mantel-piece, 
which had the curious faculty of reducing your size so 
that in its depth you saw yourself as it were at a con- 
siderable distance, had spills of paper stuck between its 
gilded frame and the wall. From these spills of paper 
I concluded that the house was the abode of a bachelor 
who occasionally smoked after dinner, — which, indeed, 
was the case, only the master of the house was from 
home at the time of my visit. In the drawang-room 
across the lobby, hooped ladies of Queen Anne's time 
might have sat and drunk tea out of the tiniest china 
cups. The furniture was elegant, but it was the elegance 
of an ancient beau. The draperies were rich, but they 
had lost color, like a spinster's cheek. In a corner stood 
a buffet with specimens of cracked china. Curious In- 
dian ornaments, and a volume of Clarissa Harlowe, and 



264 A SUMMER IK SKYE. 

another volume of the Poetical Works of Mr. Alexander 
Pope, — the binding faded, the paper dim, — lay on the 
central table. Had the last reader left them there? 
They reminded me of the lute — it may be seen at this 
day in Pompeii — which the dancing-girl flung down in 
an idle moment. In a dusky corner a piano stood open, 
but the ivory keys had grown yellow, and all richness of 
voice had been knocked out of them by the fingerings 
of dead girls. I touched them, and heard the metallic 
complaint of ill-usage, of old age, of utter loneliness and 
neglect. I thought of Ossian, and the flight of the dark- 
brown years. It was the first time they had spoken for 
long. The room, too, seemed to be pervaded by a scent 
of withered rose-leaves, but whether this odor lived in 
the sense or the imagination, it would be useless to 
inquire. 

Orbost lies pleasantly to the sun, and in the garden 
I could almost fancy Malvolio walking cross-gartered, 
so trim it was, so sunnily sedate, so formal, so ancient- 
looking. The shadow on the dial told the age of the 
day, clipped boxwood ran along every w^alk. Trees, 
crucified to the warm brick walls, stretched out long 
arms on which fruit was ripening. The bee had stuck 
his head so deeply into a rose that he could hardly get it 
out again, and so with the leaves — as a millionnaire with 
bank-notes — he impatiently buzzed and fidgeted. And 
then you were not without sharp senses of contrast : out 
of the sunny warmth and floral odors you lifted your eyes, 
and there were Macleod's Tables rising in an atmosphere 
of fable ; and up in the wind above you, turning now and 
again its head in alert outlook, skimmed a snow-white 
gull, weary — as tailors sometimes are with sitting — 
of dancing on the surges of the sea. 



THE GARDEN AT ORBOST. 265 

Orbost stands high above the sea, and if you wish 
thoroughly to enjoy yourself you must walk down the 
avenue to the stone seat placed on the road which winds 
along the brow of the broken cliffs, and which, by many 
a curve and bend, reaches the water level at about a 
quarter of a mile's distance, where there is a boat-house, 
and boats lying keel uppermost or sideways, and a stretc^h 
of yellow sand on which the tide is flowing, creamy line 
after creamy line. From where you sit the ground breaks 
down first in a wall of cliff, then in huge boulders as big 
as churches, thereafter in bushy broken ground with huts 
perched in the cosiest places, each hut swathed in the 
loveliest films of blue smoke ; and all through this broken 
ground there are narrow winding paths, along which a 
cow is always being gingerly driven, or a wild Indian- 
looking girl is bringing water from some cool spring 
beneath. Here you can quietly enjoy the expanse of 
dazzling sea, a single sail breaking the restless scintilla- 
tions ; far Rum asleep on the silver floor ; and, caught 
at a curious angle, the Cuchullin hills, — reminding you 
of some stranded iceberg, splintered, riven, many-ridged, 
which the sun in all his centuries has been unable to 
melt. In the present light they have a curiously hoary 
look, and you can notice that in the higher corries there 
are long streaks of snow. On the right, beyond the boat- 
house, a great hill, dappled with brown and olive like a 
seal's back, and traversed here and there by rocky ter- 
races, breaks in precipices down to the sea line; and 
between it and the hill on which you are sitting, and 
which slopes upward behind, you see the beginning of 
a deep glen, in its softness and greenness suggesting im- 
ages of pastoral peace, the bringing home of rich pails 
by milkmaids, the lowing of cattle in sober ruddy sunsets. 
12 



266 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

" What glen is that, Malcolm ? " " 0, sir, it just belongs 
to the farm." "Is there a house in it?" "No; but 
there 's the ruins of a dozen." " How 's that ? " " Ye 
see, the old Macleods liked to keep their cousins and 
second cousins about them ; and so Captain Macleod 
lived at the mouth of the glen, and Major Macleod at 
the top of it, and Colonel Macleod over the hill yonder. 
If the last trumpet had been blown at the end of the 
French war, no one but a Macleod would have risen out 
of the churchyard at Dunvegan. If you want to see a 
chief now-a-days, you must go to London for him. Ay, 
sir, Dun Kenneth's prophecy has come to pass : ' In the 
days of Norman, son of the third Norman, there will be 
a noise in the doors of the people, and wailing in the 
house of tlie widow ; and Macleod will not have so many 
gentlemen of his name as will row a five-oared boat 
around the Maidens ! ' The prophecy has come to pass, 
and the Tables are no longer Macleod's, — at least one of 
them is not." 

After wandering about Orbost we resumed our seats 
in the dog-cart, and drove to Dunvegan Castle. 

As we drew near Dunvegan we came down on one 
of those sinuous sea-lochs which — hardly broader than 
a river — flow far inland, and carry mysteriousness of 
sight and sound, the gliding sail, the sea-bird beating 
high against the wind, to the door of the shepherd, who 
is half a sailor among his bleating flocks. Across the 
sea, and almost within hail of your voice, a farm and 
outhouses looked embattled against the sky. Along the 
shore, as we drove, were boats and nets, and here and 
there little clumps and knots of houses. People were 
moving about on the roads intent on business. We 
passed a church, a merchant's store, a post-oflfice; we 



THE GARDEN AT DUN VEGAN. 267 

were plainly approaching some village of importance ; and 
on the right hand the chestnuts, larches, and ashes which 
filled every hollow, and covered every rolling slope, gave 
sufficient indication that we were approaching the castle. 

In the centre of these woods we turned up a narrow 
road to the right along which ran a wall, and stopped 
at a narrow postern door. Here Malcolm rang a bell, — 
the modern convenience grating somewhat on my pre- 
conceived notions of an approach to the old keep ; if he 
had blown a horn I daresay I should have felt better 
satisfied, — and in due time we were admitted by a trim 
damsel. The bell was bad, but the brilliant garden into 
which we stepped was worse, — soft level lawns, a huge 
star of geraniums, surrounded at proper distances by 
half-moons and crescents of calceolarias rimmed with 
lobelias. The garden was circled by a large wall, against 
which fruit-trees were trained. In thinkinsr of Dunvesan 
my mind had unconsciously become filled with desolate 
and Ossianic images, piled and hoary rocks, the thistle 
waving its beard in the wind, flakes of sea spray flying 
over all, — and behold I rang a bell as if I were in Re- 
gent Street, and by a neat damsel was admitted into a 
garden that would have done no discredit to Kensing- 
ton! After passing through the garden we entered upon 
a space of wild woodland, containing some fine timber, 
and romance began to revive. Malcolm then led me 
to an outhouse, and pointed out a carved stone above the 
doorway, on which were quartered the arms of the Mac- 
leods and Macdonalds. "Look there," said he, "Mac- 
leod has built the stone into his barn which should have 
been above his fire-place in his dining-room." 

" I see the bull's head of Macleod and the galley of 
Macdonald, — were the families in any way connected ? " 



268 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

"Oftener by a bloody dirk than by a gold marriage 
ring. But with all their quarrellings they intermarried 
more than once. Dunvegan was originally a stronghold 
of the Macdonald." 

" Indeed ! and how did the Macleods get possession ? '* 
"I'll tell you that," said Malcolm. "Macdonald of 
Dunvegan had no son, but his only daughter was married 
to Macleod of Harris, and a young chief was growing 
up in Macleod's castle. The Macdonalds, knowing that 
when the old man was dead, they would have no one 
to lead them to battle, were pondering whom they should 
elect as chief; and, at the same time, Macleod's lady 
was just as anxiously pondering by what means her son 
should sit in Dunvegan. Well, while all this thinking 
and scheming was going on secretly in Skye and Harris, 
Macdonald, wishing to visit Macleod, ordered his barge 
and rowers to be in readiness, and pushed off. Mac- 
leod, hearing that his father-in-law was coming, went out 
in his barge to meet him half-way, and to escort him to 
his castle with all honor. Macleod's barge was bigger 
and stronger than Macdon aid's, and held a greater num- 
ber of rowers ; and while his men were pulling, the chief 
sat in the stern steering, and his wife sat by his side. 
When they got into mid-channel a heavy mist came 
down, but still the men pulled, and still Macleod steered. 
All at once Macleod found that he was running straight 
on his father-in-law's barge, and just when he had his 
hand on the helm to change the course and avoid striking, 
his wife gripped him hard and whispered in his ear, 
* Macleod, Macleod, there 's only that barge betwixt you 
and Dunvegan." Macleod took the hint, steered straight 
on, struck and sunk Macdonald's barge in the mist, and 
sailed for Dunvegan, which he claimed in the name of 



DUNVEGAN. 269 

his son. That is the way, as the old people tell, that 
Macleod came into possession here." 

Then we strolled along the undulating paths, and at a 
sudden turn there was the ancient keep on its rock, a 
stream brawling down close at hand, the tide far with- 
drawn, the long shore heaped with dulse and tangle, and 
the sea-mews above the flag-staff, as the jackdaws fly 
above the cathedral towers in England. It was gray as 
the rock on which it stood, — there were dark tapestries 
of ivy on the walls, but at a first glance it was disap- 
pointingly modern-looking. I thought of the mighty 
shell of Tantallon looking towards the Bass, and waving 
a matted beard of lichens in the sea wind, and began to 
draw disadvantageous comparisons. The feeling was 
foolishness, and on a better acquaintance with the build- 
ing it wore off. Dunvegan is inhabited, and you cannot 
have well-aired sheets, a well-cooked dinner, and the 
venerableness of ruin. . Comfort and decay are never 
companions. 

Dunvegan reminds one of a fragment of an old ballad 
encumbered with a modern editor's introductory chap- 
ter, historical disquisitions, critical comments, explanatory 
and illustrative notes, and glossarial index. The dozen 
or so of rude stanzas, — a whole remote passionate world 
dwelling in them as in some wizard's mirror, — is by far 
the most valuable portion of the volume, although, in 
point of bulk, it bears no proportion to the subsidiary 
matter which has grown around it. Dunvegan is per- 
haps the oldest inhabited building in the country, but the 
ancient part is of small extent. One portion of it, it is 
said, was built in the ninth century. A tower was added 
in the fifteenth, another portion in the sixteenth, and the 
remainder by different hands, and at irregular intervals 



270 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

since then. No inconsiderable portion is unquestionably 
modern. The old part of the castle looks toward the 
sea, and entrance is obtained by a steep and narrow arch- 
way, — up which, perhaps, came Macleod of Harris after 
he sunk the barge of his father-in-law in the misty Minch. 
In a crevice in the wall, which forms one side of this 
entrance, a well was recently discovered ; it had been 
built up, — no man knows for how long, — and when 
tasted, the water was found perfectly sweet and pure. 
In the old days of strife and broil it may have cooled 
many a throat thirsty with siege. The most modern 
portion of the building, I should fancy, is the present 
frontage, which, as you approach it by the bridge which 
solidly fills up the ravine, is not without a certain grand- 
eur and nobility of aspect. The rock on which the 
castle stands is surrounded on three sides by the sea; 
and fine as the old pile looked at ebb of tide, one could 
fancy how much its appearance would be improved with 
all that far-stretching ugliness of sand and tangle obliter- 
ated, and the rock swathed with the azure and silence of 
ocean. To sleep in a bedroom at Dunvegan, in such cir- 
cumstances, must be hke sleeping in a bedroom in fairy- 
land. You might hear a mermaid singing beneath your 
window, and looking out into the moonlight, behold, ris- 
ing from the glistening swells, the perilous beauty of her 
breasts and hair. 

After viewing the castle from various points, we boldly 
advanced across the bridge and rang the bell. After 
waiting some little time, we were admitted by a man 
who — the family at the time being from home — seemed 
the only person in possession. He was extremely polite, 
volunteered to show us all over the place, and regretted 
that in the prolonged absence of his master the carpets 



THE MACLEOD PORTRAITS. 271 

and furniture in the " drawring-room " had been lifted. 
The familiar Enghsh patois sounded strange in the castle 
of a Macleod ! On his invitation we entered an unfur- 
nished hall with galleries running to left and right, and 
on the wooden balustrades of one of these galleries the 
great banner of Macleod was dispread, — a huge white 
sheet on which the arms and legend of the house were 
worked in crimson. Going up stairs, we passed through 
spacious suites of rooms, carpetless, and with the furni- 
ture piled up in the centre and covered with an awning, 
— through every window obtaining a glimpse of blue 
Loch and wild Skye headland. In most cases in the 
rooms the family pictures were left hanging, some fine, 
others sorry daubs enough, yet all interesting as suggest- 
ing the unbroken flow of generations. Here was Rory 
More, who was knighted in the reign of James VI. 
Here was the Macdonald lady, whose marriage with the 
Macleod of that day was the occasion of the arms of the 
families being united on the sculptured stone which we 
saw built above the door of the barn outside. Here was 
a haughty-looking young man of twenty-five, and yonder 
the same man at sixty, grim, wrinkled, suspicious-looking, 
resembling the earlier portrait only in the pride of eye 
and lip. Here were Macleod beauties who married and 
became mothers in other houses ; yonder were beauties 
from other castles who became mothers here, and grew 
gray-haired and died, leaving a reminiscence of their 
features in the family for a generation or two. Here 
was the wicked Macleod, yonder the spendthrift in whose 
hands the family wealth melted, and over there the brave 
soldier standing with outstretched arm, elephants and 
Indian temples forming an appropriate background. The 
rooms were spacious, every window affording a glorious 



272 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

sea view ; but from their unfurnished and dismantled 
condition there arose a sort of Ossianic desolation, which, 
comfortless as it must have been to a permanent dweller, 
did not fail to yield a certain gloomy pleasure to the 
imagination of the visitor of an hour. 

Passing up and down stairs in the more ancient por- 
tion of the castle, the man in possession showed us the 
dungeons in which the Macleods immured their prisoners. 
I had fancied that these would have been scooped out of 
the rock on which the castle stood. Whether such ex- 
isted I cannot say; but by candle-light I peered into 
more than one stony closet let into the mighty wall, — 
the entrance of which the garnicnts of the lady must 
have swept every night as she went to bed, — where the 
captured foemen of the family were confined. Perhaps 
the near contiguity of the prisoner, perhaps the sweeping 
of garments past the dungeon door, perhaps the chance- 
heard groan or clank of manacle, constituted the ex- 
quisite zest and flavor of revenge. Men keep their dear- 
est treasures near them ; and it might be that the neigh- 
borhood of the wretch he hated — so near that the sound 
of revel could reach him at times — was more grateful to 
Macleod than his burial in some far-away vault, perhaps 
to be forgotten. Who knows! It is difficult to creep 
into the hearts of those old sea-kings. If I mistake not, 
one of the dungeons is at present used as a wine-cellar. 
So the world and the fashion of it changes ! Where the 
Macleod of three centuries ago kept his prisoner, the 
Macleod of to-day- keeps his claret. From which of its 
uses the greatest amount of satisfaction has been derived 
would be a curious speculation. 

By a narrow spiral stair we reached the most interest- 
ing apartment in Dunvegan, — the Fairy Room, in which 



THE FAIRY ROOM. 273 

Sir Walter Scott slept once. This apartment is situated 
in the ancient portion of the building, it overlooks the 
sea, and its walls are of enormous thickness. From its 
condition I should almost fancy that no one has slept 
there since Sir Walter's time. In it, at the period of my 
visit, there was neither bedstead nor chair, and it seemed 
a general lumber-room. The w^alls were hung with 
rusty broadswords, dirks, targes, pistols, Indian helmets ; 
and tunics of knitted steel were suspended on frames, but 
so rotten with age and neglect that a touch frayed them 
as if they had been woven of worsted. There were also 
curved scymitars, and curiously-hafted daggers, and two 
tattered regimental flags, — that no doubt plunged through 
battle smoke in the front of charging lines, — and these 
last I fancied had been brought home by the soldier 
w^hose portrait I had seen in one of the modern rooms. 
Moth-eaten volumes were scattered about amid a chaos 
of rusty weapons, cruses, and lamps. In one corner lay 
a huge oaken chest with a chain wound round it, but the 
lid was barely closed, and through the narrow aperture 
a roll of paper protruded docketed in clerkly hand and 

with faded ink, — accounts of from 1715 till some 

time at the close of the century, — in which doubtless 
some curious items were imbedded. On everything lay 
the dust and neglect of years. The room itself was 
steeped in a half twilight. The merriest sunbeam be- 
came grave as it slanted across the corroded weapons in 
which there was no answering gleam. Cobwebs floated 
from the corners of the walls, — the spiders which wove 
them having died long ago of sheer age. To my feeling 
it would be almost impossible to laugh in the haunted 
chamber, and if you did so you would be startled by a 
strange echo as if something mocked you. There was 

12* R 



274 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

a grave-like odor in the apartment. You breathed dust 
and decay. 

Seated on the wooden trunk round which the chain 
was wound, while Malcolm, with his hand thrust in the 
hilt of a broadsword, was examining the notches on its 
blade, I inquired, — 

" Is there not a magic flag kept at Dun vegan ? The 
flag was the gift of a fairy, if I remember the stoiy 
rightly." 

" Yes," said Malcolm, making a cut at an imaginary 
foeman, and then hanging the weapon up on the wall ; 
" but it is kept in a glass case, and never shown to 
strangers, at least when the family is from home." 

" How did Macleod come into possession of the flag, 
Malcolm?" 

" Well, the old people say that one of the Macleods 
fell in love with a fairy, and used to meet her on the 
green hill out there. Macleod promised to marry her ; 
and one night the fairy gave him a green flag, telling 
him that, when either he or one of his race was in dis- 
tress, the flag was to be waved, and relief would be 
certain. Three times the flag might be waved ; but after 
the third time it might be thrown into the fire, for the 
power would have gone all out of it. I don't know, in- 
deed, how it was, but Macleod deserted the fairy and 
married a woman." 

" Is there anything astonishing in that ? Would you 
not rather marry a woman than a fairy yourself." 

" Maybe, if she was a rich one like the woman Mac- 
leod married," said Malcolm, with a grin. " But when 
the fairy heard of the marriage she was in a great rage 
whatever. She cast a spell over Macleod's country, and 
all the women brought forth dead sons, and all the cows 



THE FAIRY FLAG. 275 

brought forth dead calves. Macleod was in great tribu- 
lation. He would soon have no young men to fi"-ht his 
battles, and his tenants would soon have no milk or 
cheese wherewith to pay their rents. The cry of his 
people came to him as he sat in his castle, and he 
waved the flag, and next day over the country there 
were living sons and living calves. Another time, in 
the front of a battle, he was sorely pressed, and nigh 
being beaten, but he waved the flag again, and got the 
victory, and a great slaying of his enemies." 

" Then the flag has not been waved for the third and 
last time?" 

"No. At the time of the potato failure, when the 
people were starving in their cabins, it was thought 
that he should have waved it and stopped the rot. But 
the flag stayed in its case. Macleod can only wave it 
once now ; and I 'm sure he 's like a man with his last 
guinea in his pocket, — he does not like to spend it. But 
maybe, sir, you would like to climb up to the flagstaff 
and see the view." 

We then left the haunted chamber, passed through 
the dismantled room in which the portraits hung, and 
ascended the narrow spiral stair, — the walls of wliich, 
whether from sea damp, or from a peculiarity of the 
lime used in building, were covered with a glistering 
scurf of salt, — and finally emerged on the battlementcd 
plateau from which the flagstaff sprang. The huge mast 
had fallen a month or two previously, and w^as now 
spliced with rope and propped with billets of wood. A 
couple of days before the catastrophe, a young fellow 
from Cambridge, Malcolm told me, had climbed to the 
top, — lucky for the young fellow it did not fall then, 
else he and Cambridge bad parted company forever. 



276 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

From our airy perch the outlook was wonderfully mag- 
nificent. From the breast of the hill which shut out every- 
thing in one direction, there rolled down on the castle billow 
on billow of many-colored foliage. The garden through 
which we had passed an hour before was but a speck 
of bright color. The little toy village sent up its pillars 
of smoke. There was the brown stony beach, the boats, 
the ranges of nets, the sinuous snake-like Loch, and the 
dark far-stretching promontories asleep on the sleekness 
of summer sea. With what loveliness of shining blue 
the sea flowed in everywhere, carrying silence and the 
foreign-looking bird into inland solitudes, girdling with 
its glory the rock on which the chief's castle had stood 
for ten centuries, and at the door of the shepherd's 
shealing calling on the brown children with the voices 
of many wavelets, to come down and play with them 
on crescents of yellow sand ! 

Driving homeward I inquired, " Does the Laird live 
here much ? " " No, indeed," said Malcolm ; " he lives 
mainly in London." 

And thereupon I thought how pleasant it must be for 
a man to escape from the hollow, gusty castle, with its 
fairy flag which has yet to be waved once, its dungeons, 
its haunted chambers, its large gaunt rooms with por- 
traits of men and women from whom he has drawn his 
blood, its traditions of revenge and crime, and take up 
his abode in some villa at breezy Hampstead or classic 
Twickenham, or even in some half-suburban residence in 
the neighborhood of Regent's Park. The villa at Hamp- 
stead or Twickenham is neat and trim, and when you 
enter on residence you enter without previous associa- 
tions. It is probably not so old as' yourself. The walls 
and rooms are strange, but you know that you and they 



DUNVEGAN. 277 

will become pleasantly acquainted by and by. Dark fam- 
ily faces do not lower upon you out of the past ; the air 
of the room in which you sit is not tainted with the smell 
of blood spilt hundreds of years ago. You and your 
dwelling are not the sole custodiers of dreadful secrets. 
The shadows of the firelight on the twilight walls do 
not take shapes that daunt and affright. Your ancestors 
no longer tyrannize over you. You escape from the 
gloomy past, and live in the light and the voices of 
to-day. You are yourself, — you are no longer a link 
in a blood-crusted chain. You enter upon the enjoyment 
of your individuality, as you enter upon the enjoyment 
of a newly-inherited estate. In modern London you 
drink nepenthe, and Dunvegan is forgotten. Were I the 
possessor of a haunted, worm-eaten castle, around which 
strange stories float, I should fly from it as I would from 
a guilty conscience, and in the whirl of vivid life lose all 
thoughts of my ancestors. I should appeal to the pres- 
ent to protect me from the past. I should go into Par- 
liament and study blue-books, and busy myself with the 
better regulation of alkali works and the drainage of 
Stoke Pogis. No ancestor could touch me then. 

" It 's a strange old place, Dunvegan," said Malcolm, 
as we drove down by the Fairy Bridge, "and many 
strange things have happened in it. Did you ever hear, 
sir, how Macdonald of Sleat — Donald Gorm, or Blue 
Donald, as he was called — stayed a night with Macleod 
of Dunvegan at a time when there was feud between 
them?" 

" No ; but I shall be glad to hear the story now." 
" Well," Malcolm went on, " on a stormy winter even- 
ing, when the walls of Dunvegan were wet with the rain 
of the cloud and the spray of the sea, Macleod, before 



278 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

he sat down to dinner, went out to have a look at the 
weather. * A giant 's night is coming on, my men,' he 
said when he came in, ' and if Macdonald of Sleat were 
at the foot of my rock seeking a night's shelter, I don't 
think I could refuse it.' He then sat down in the torch- 
light at the top of the long table, with his gentlemen 
around him. When they were half through with their 
meal, a man came in with the news that the barge of 
Macdonald of Sleat — which had been driven back by 
stress of weather on its way to Harris — was at the foot 
of the rock, and that Macdonald asked shelter for the 
night for himself and his men. ' They are welcome,' said 
Macleod ; ' tell them to come in.' The man went away, 
and in a short time Macdonald, his piper, and his body- 
guard of twelve, came in wet with the spray and rain, 
and weary with rowing. Now on the table there was a 
boar's head, — which is always an omen of evil to a Mac- 
donald, — and noticing the dish, Donald Gorm with his 
men about him sat at the foot of the long table, beneath 
the salt, and away from Macleod and the gentlemen. 
Seeing this, Macleod made a place beside himself, and 
called out, • Macdonald of Sleat, come and sit up here ! ' 
* Thank you,' said Donald Gorm, ' I '11 remain where I 
am ; but remember that wherever Macdonald of Sleat 
sits that 's the head of the table.' So when dinner was 
over the gentlemen began to talk about their exploits in 
hunting and their deeds in battle, and to show each other 
their dirks. Macleod showed his, which was very hand- 
some, and it was passed down the long table from gentle- 
man to gentleman, each one admiring it and handing it 
to the next, till at last it came to Macdonald, who passed 
it on, saying nothing. Macleod noticed this, and called 
out, ' Why don't you show your dirk, Donald ; I hear it 's 



MACLEOD'S TRICK DISCOYEKED. 279 

very fine ? ' Macdonald then drew his dirk, and holding 
it up in his right hand, called out, ' Here it is, Macleod 
of Dunvegan, and in the best hand for pushing it home in 
the four and twenty islands of the Hebrides.' Now Mac- 
leod was a strong man, but Macdonald was a stronger, 
and so Macleod could not call him a liar ; but thinkino- 
he would be mentioned next, he said, ' And where is the 
next best hand for pushing a dirk home in the four and 
twenty islands ? ' 'Here,' cried Donald Gorm, holding up 
his dirk in his left hand, and brandishing it in Macleod's 
face, who sat amongst his gentlemen biting his lips with 
vexation. So when it came to bedtime, Macleod told 
Macdonald that he had prepared a chamber for him near 
his own, and that he had placed fresh heather in a barn 
for the piper and the body-guard of twelve. Macdonald 
thanked Macleod, but remembering the boar's head on 
the table, said he would go with his men, and that he 
preferred for his couch the fresh heather to the down of 
the swan. ' Please yourself, Macdonald of Sleat,' said 
Macleod, as he turned on his heel. 

" Now it so happened that one of the body-guard of 
twelve had a sweetheart in the castle, but he had no 
opportunity of speaking to her. But once when she was 
passing the table with a dish, she put her mouth to the 
man's ear and whispered, ' Bid your master beware of 
Macleod. The barn you sleep in will be red flame at 
midnight and ashes before the morning.' The words of 
the sweetheart passed the man's ear like a little breeze, 
but he kept the color of his face, and looked as if he had 
heard nothing. So when Macdonald and his men got 
into the barn where the fresh heather had been spread 
for them to sleep on, he told the words which had been 
whispered in his ear. Donald Gorm then saw the trick 



280 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

that was being played, and led his men quietly out by 
the back door of the barn, down to a hollow rock which 
stood up against the wind, and there they sheltered them- 
selves. By midnight the sea was red with the reflec- 
tion of the burning barn, and morning broke on gray 
ashes and smouldering embers. The Macleods thought 
they had killed their enemies ; but fancy their astonish- 
ment when Donald Gorm with his body-guard of twelve 
marched past the castle down to the foot of the rock, 
where his barge was moored, with his piper playing 
in front, — ' Macleod, Macleod, Macleod of Dun vegan, I 
drove my dirk into your father s heart, and in payment 
of last night's hospitality I '11 drive it to the hilt in his 
son's yet.' " 

" Macleod of Dunvegan must have been a great rascal," 
said I ; " and I hope he got his deserts." 

"I don't know, indeed," said Malcolm; "but if Donald 
Gorm caught him he could hardly miss." He then 
added, as if in deprecation of the idea that any portion 
of ignominy was attachable to him, " I am not one of 
the Dunvegan Macleods; I come from the Macleods 
of Raasay." 



A RAINY DAY. 281 



DUNTULM. 

THE Landlord's house had been enveloped for sev- 
eral days in misty rain. It did not pour straight 
down, it did not patter on door and window, it had no 
action as it has in the south, — which made it all the 
more tormenting, for in action there is always some 
sort of exhilaration ; in any case you have the notion 
that it will wear itself out soon, that " it is too hot work 
to last long, Hardy." An immense quantity of moisture 
was held in the atmosphere, and it descended in a soft, 
silent, imperceptible drizzle. It did not seem so very 
bad when you looked out on it from the window, but if 
you ventured on the gravel you were wet to the skin in 
a trice. White damp vapors lay low on the hills across 
the Loch ; white damp vapors lay on the rising grounds 
where the sheep fed; white damp vapors hid the tops 
of the larches which sheltered the house from the south- 
west winds. Heaven was a wet blanket, and every- 
thing felt its influence. During the whole day Maida 
lay dreaming on the rug before the fire. The melan- 
choly parrot moped in its cage, and at intervals — for 
the sake of variety merely — attacked the lump of 
white sugar between the wires, or suspended itself, head 
downwards, and eyed you askance. The horses stamped 
and pawed in their stables. The drenched peacock, 
which but a few days before was never weary display- 
ing his starry tail, read one a lesson on the instability 
of human glory. The desolate sea lapping the weedy 



282 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

piers of Tyre ; Napoleon at St. Helena, his innumerable 
armies, the thunders of his cannon that made capitals 
pale, faded away, perished utterly like a last year's 
di-eam, could not have been more impressive. It sat on 
the garden seat, a mere lump of draggled feathers, and 
as gray as a hedge-sparrow. The Landlord shut him- 
self up in his own room, writing letters against the depart- 
ure of the Indian mail. We read novels, and yawned, 
and made each other miserable with attempts at con- 
versation, and still the clouds hung low on hill, and rising 
ground, and large plantation, like surcharged sponges; 
and still the drizzle came down mercilessly, noiselessly, 
until the world was sodden, and was rapidly becoming 
sponge-like too. 

On the fourth day we went up stairs, threw ourselves 
on our beds dead beat, and fell asleep, till we were 
roused by the gong for dinner. Thrusting my face 
hurriedly into a basin of cold water, tidying dishevelled 
locks, I got down when the soup was being taken away, 
and was a good deal laughed at. Somehow the spirits 
of the party seemed lighter; the despotism of rain did 
not weigh so heavily on them ; I felt almost sportively 
inclined myself; and just at the conclusion of dessert, 
when wine had circulated once or twice, there was a 
flush of rosy light on the panes. I went at once to the 
window, and there was the sun raying out great lances 
of splendor, and armies of fiery mists lifting from the 
hills and streaming upwards, glorious as seraph bands, 
or the transfigured spirits of martyrdom. The westward- 
ebbing loch was sleek gold, the wet trees twinkled, every 
puddle was sun-gilt. I looked at the barometer and saw 
the mercury rising like hope m a man's breast when 
fortune smiles on him. The curtains were drawn back 



DEPARTURE FROM THE LANDLORD'S. 283 

to let the red light fully into the room. "I like to see 
that fiery smoke on the hills," said the Landlord, " it 's 
always a sign of fine weather setting in. Now it won't 
do for you fellows to lie up here like beached boats 
doing nothing. You must be off after tiffin to-morrow. 
I '11 give you letters of introduction, a dog-cart, and a 
man, and in a week or so come back and tell me what 
you think of Duntulm and Quirang. You must rough 
it, you know. You must n't be afraid of a shower, or of 
getting your feet wetted in a bog." 

And so next day after tiffin the Landlord sent us off 
into the wilds, as a falconer might toss his hawk into the 
air. 

The day was fine, the heat was tempered by a pleas- 
ant breeze, great white clouds swam in the blue void, 
and every now and again a shower came racing across 
our path with a sunbeam at its heel. We drove past the 
village, past the huts that ran along the top of the culti- 
vated hillside, dropped down on Skeabost, and the stream 
with the island of graves, and in due time reached the 
solitary school-house at the junction of the roads. Turn- 
ing to the left here, w^e drove along the east shore of 
Loch Snizort, up stages of easy ascent, and then, some 
four or five miles on, left the Parliamentary Road and 
descended on Kingsburgh. I pointed out to Fellowes 
the ruins of the old house, spoke to him of the Prince, 
Flora Macdouald, Dr. Johnson, and Boswell. After 
sauntering about there for a quarter of an hour, we 
walked down to the present house with its gables 
draped with ivies, and its pleasant doors and windows 
scented with roses and honeysuckles. To the gentle- 
man who then occupied the farm we bore a letter from 
the Landlord, but, on inquiring, found that he had gone 



284 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

south on business a couple of days previously. This 
gentleman was a bachelor, the house was tenanted by 
servants only, and of course at Kingsburgh we could not 
remain. This was a disappointment ; and as we walked 
back to the dog-cart, I told my companion of a pleasant 
ten days I had wasted there three or four summers since. 
I spoke to him of the Kingsburgh of that time, — the 
kindly generous Christian Highland gentleman ; of his 
open door and frank greeting, warm and hospitable ; of 
his Christianity, as open and hospitable as his door; 
of the plenteous meats and drinks, and the household 
pieties which ever seemed to ask a blessing. I spoke 
of the pleasant family, so numerous, so varied; the 
grandmother, made prisoner to an easy-chair, yet never 
fretful, never morose; who, on the lip of ninety, wore 
the smile of twenty-five ; who could look up from her 
Bible — with which she was familiar as with the way to 
her bedroom — to listen to the news of the moment, and 
to feel interested in it ; who, with the light of the golden 
city in her eyes, could listen and enter into a girl's 
trouble about her white frock and her first dance. There 
is nothing keeps so well as a good heart ; nothing which 
time sweetens so to the core. I spoke of Kingsburgh 
himself, guileless, chivalrous, hospitable ; of his sisters, 
one a widow, one a spinster ; of his brave soldier nephew 
from India ; of his pretty nieces, with their English voices 
and their English wild-rose bloom, — who loved the 
heather and the mist, and the blue Loch with the gulls 
sweeping over it, but him most of all ; of his sons, deep 
in the Gorilla Book, and to whose stories, and the history 
of whose adventures and exploits grandmamma's ears 
were ever open. I spoke, too, of the guests that came 
and went during my stay, — the soldier, the artist, the 



ON THE WAY TO UIG. 285 

mysterious man, who, so far as any of ub knew, had 
neither name, occupation, nor country, who was without 
parents and antecedents, — who was himself alone ; of the 
games of croquet on the sunny lawn, of the pic-nics and 
excursions, of the books read in tlie cool twilight of the 
moss-house, of the smoking parliament held in the stables 
on rainy days, of the quiet cigar in the open air before 
going to bed. 'Twas the pleasantest fortniglit I ever 
remember to have spent ; and before I had finished tell- 
ing my companion all about it we had taken our seats in 
the dog-cart, and were pretty well advanced on the way 
to Uig. 

Uig is distant from Kingsburgh about five miles ; the 
road is high above the sea, and as you drive along you 
behold the northern headlands of Skye, the wide blue 
Minch, and Harris, rising like a cloud on the horizon ; 
and if the day is fine, you will enjoy the commerce of sea 
and sky, the innumerable tints thrown by the clouds on 
the watery mirror, the mat of glijtering light spread 
beneath the sun, the gray lines of showers on the distant 
promontories, the tracks of air curi-ents on the mobile 
element between. The clouds pass from shape to shape, 
— what resembles a dragon one moment resembles some- 
thing else the next ; the promontory which was obscure 
ten minutes ago is now yellow-green in sunlight; the 
watery pavement is tessellated with hues, but with hues 
that continually shift and change. In the vast outlook 
there is utter silence, but no rest. What with swimming 
vapor, passing Proteus-like from form to form, — obscure 
showers that run, — vagrant impulses of wind, — sun- 
beams that gild and die in gilding, — the vast impression- 
able mimetic floor outspread, — the sight you behold 
when you toil up the steep road from Kingsburgh to 



286 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

Uig is full of motion. There is no rest in nature, they 
say ; and the clouds are changing like opinions and 
kingdoms, and the bodies and souls of men. Matter is 
a stream that flows, a fire that burns. By a cunninger 
chemistry than ours, the atoms that composed the body 
of Adam could be arrested somewhere yet. 

Just when you have reached the highest part of the 
road you come in view of the Bay of Uig. You are 
high above it as you drive or walk along, the ground is 
equally high on the other side, and about the distance 
of a mile inland, on a great sandy beach, the tide is 
rolling in long white lines that chase each other. On 
the deep water outside the tidal lines a yacht is rocking ; 
there is a mansion-house with a flagstaff on the shore, 
and at the top of the bay are several houses, a church, 
and a schooUhouse, built of comfortable stone and lime. 
When the Minch is angry outside, washing the head- 
lands with spray, Uig is the refuge which the fisherman 
and the coaster seek. When once they have entered 
its rocky portals they are safe. The road now descends 
towards the shore ; there is an inn midway, low-roofed, 
dimly-lighted, covered with thatch, — on the whole, per- 
haps the most unpromising edifice in the neighborhood. 
Here we pulled up. Already we had driven some twenty- 
five miles, and as we wished to push on to Duntulm that 
evening, we were anxious to procure a fresh horse. The 
keen air had whetted our appetites, and we were eager 
for dinner, or what substitute for dinner could be pro- 
vided. Our driver unharnessed the horse, and we entered 
a little room, spotlessly clean, however, and knocked 
with our knuckles on the deal table. When the red- 
haired handmaiden entered, we discovered that the Uig 
bill of fare consisted of bread and butter, cheese, whiskey, 



THE INN AT UIG. 287 

milk, and hard-boiled eggs, — and a very satisfactory 
bill of fare we considered it too. There is no such con- 
diment as hunger honorably earned by exercise in the 
open air. When the viands were placed before us we 
attacked them manfully. The bread and butter disap- 
peared, the hard-boiled eggs disappeared, we flinched not 
before the slices of goats'-milk cheese ; then we made 
equal division of the whiskey, poured it into bowls of 
milk, and drank with relish. While in the middle of the 
feast the landlord entered — he wore the kilt, the only 
person almost whom I had seen wearing it in my sojourn 
in the island — to make arrangements relative to the 
fresh horse. He admitted that he possessed an animal, 
but as he possessed a gig and eke a driver, it was his 
opinion that the three should go together. To this we 
objected, stating that as we already had a vehicle and 
a driver, and as they were in no wise tired, such a 
change as he suggested would be needless. We told 
him also that we meant to remain at Duntulm for one 
night only, and that by noon of the following day we 
would be back at his hostelry with his horse. The 
landlord seemed somewhat moved by our representa- 
tions, and just when victory was hanging in the balance 
the brilliant idea struck my companion that he should 
be bribed with his own whiskey. At the rap on the deal 
table the red-haired wench appeared, the order was given, 
and in a trice a jorum of mountain dew was produced. 
This decided matters, the landlord laid down the arms 
of argument, and after we had solemnly drunk each 
other's health he went out for the fresh horse, and in a 
quarter of an hour we were all right, and slowly de- 
scending the steep hill-road to Uig. 

We drove through the village, where a good deal of 



288 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

building seemed going on, and then began to climb the 
hill-road that rose beyond it. Along the hillside this 
road zis-zag2:ed in such a curious manner, ran in such 
terraces and parallel lines, that the dog-cart immediately 
beneath you, and into which you could almost chuck a 
biscuit, — the one machine heading east, the other west, 
— would take ten minutes before it reached the point 
to which you had obtained. At last we reached the top 
of the wavy ascent, passed through a mile or two of 
moory wilderness, in which we met a long string of 
women bringing home creels of peats, and then in the 
early sunset descended the long hillside which led to 
Kilmuir. Driving along we had Mugstot pointed out 
to us, — a plain white dwelling on our left in which 
Macdonald lived after he had vacated Duntulm, and 
while Armadale was yet building. About this place, 
too, the>«I*arliamentary Road stopped. No longer could 
we dnve along smoothly as on an Enghsh turnpike. 
The pathway now was narrow and stony, and the dog- 
cart bumped and jolted in a most distressing manner. 
During the last hour, too, the scenery had changed its 
character. We were no longer descending a hillside on 
which the afternoon sun shone pleasantly. Our path 
still lay along the sea, but above us were high cliffs 
with great boulders lying at their feet ; beneath us, 
and sloping down to the sea level, boulders lay piled on 
each other, and against these the making tide seethed 
and fretted. The sun was setting on the Minch, and the 
irregular purple outline of Harris was distinctly visible 
on the horizon. For some time back we had seen no 
house, nor had our path been crossed by a single human 
being. The solitariness and desolation of the scenery 
affected one. Everything around was unfamihar and 



A HOSPITABLE RECEPTION. 289 

portentous. The road on which we drove was like a 
road in the " Faery Queen," along which a knight, the 
sunset dancing on his armor, might prick in search of 
perilous adventure. The chin of the sun now rested on 
the Minch, the overhanging cliffs were rosy, and the 
rocky road began to seem interminable. At last there 
was a sudden turn, and there, on a little promontory, 
with shattered wall and loophole against the red lio-ht, 
stood Duntulm, — the castle of all others that I most 
wished to see. 

Going down the rocky road, the uncomfortable idea 
crept into our minds that Duntulm, to whom we bore a 
letter of introduction from the Landlord, might — like the 
owner of Kingsburgh — have gone to the south on busi- 
ness. We could hardly have returned to Uig that night, 
and this thought made yet more rigid the wall of rosy 
cliff above us, and yet more dreary the seethe of the 
Minch amongst the broken boulders beneath. As sus- 
pense was worse than certainty, we urged on the Uig 
horse, and in a short time, with the broken castle behind 
us, drew up at the house. Duntulm had seen us coming, 
and when we alighted he Avas at the door, his face hospi 
table as a fire in winter time, and his outstretched hand 
the best evidence of good wishes. In a moment the bald 
red cliffs and the homeless seething of the IMinch among 
the broken stones faded out of my memory. We men- 
tioned our names, and proffered the letter of introduction. 
" There is no need," said he, as he thrust the epistle into 
his pocket, " civility before ceremony. Having come you 
are of course my guests. Come in. The letter will tell 
me who you are soon enough." And so we were carried 
into the little parlor till our bedrooms were got ready, 
and then w^e went up stairs, washed our hands and faces, 

13 8 



290 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

changed our clotlies, and came down for tea. When we 
entered the parlor, the tea-um was hissing on the table, 
and with our host sat a photographer — bearded as all 
artists at the present day are — who had been engaged 
during the afternoon on Flora Macdonald's grave. 

When tea was over we were carried into another room 
where were materials placed for the brewing of punch. 
Through the window I beheld spectral castle, the sea on 
which the light was dying, the purple fringe of Harris 
on the horizon. And seated there in the remotest corner 
of Skye, amongst people whom I had never before seeUj 
girt by walls of cliffs and the sounding sea, in a region, 
too, in which there was no proper night, I confess to have 
been conscious of a pleasant feeling of strangeness, of 
removal from all customary conditions of thought and 
locality, which I like at times to recall and enjoy over 
again. Into this feeling the strange country through 
which I had that day driven, the strange room in which 
I sat, the strange faces surrounding me, the strange talk, 
all entered ; yet I am almost certain that it was height- 
ened to no inconsiderable extent by the peculiar spirit- 
bottle on the table. This bottle was pale green in color, 
was composed of two hollow hemispheres like a sand- 
glass, the mouthpiece surmounting the upper hemisphere 
of course ; and from the upper hemisphere to the lower 
sprang four hollow arms, through which the liquor 
coursed, giving the bottle a curiously square appearance. 
I had never seen such a bottle before, and I suppose till I 
go back to Duntulm I am not likely to see its like. Its 
shape was . peculiar, and that peculiarity dovetailed into 
the peculiarity of everything else. We sat there till the 
light had died out on the sea, and the cloud had come 
down on Harris, and then the candles were brought in. 



DONALD GORM. 291 

But the broken tower of Duntulm still abode in my 
memory, and I began to make inquiries concerning it. 
I was told that it was long the seat of the Macdonalds, 
but that after the family had been driven out of it by the 
ghost of Donald Gorm, they removed to Mugstot. "Don- 
ald Gorm ! " I said ; " were they driven out by the rest- 
less spirit of the Donald who flouted Macleod at his own 
table at Dunvegan, — who, when he was asked to show 
his dirk, held it up in the torch-light in the face of 
Macleod and of his gentlemen, with the exclamation, 
' Here it is, Macleod of Dunvegan, and in the best hand 
for pushing it home in the four and twenty islands of the 
Hebrides ? ' " " They were driven away by the spirit of 
the same Donald," said our host. " That chieftain had 
been stricken by a lingering yet mortal illness, and re- 
moved to Edinburgh, and placed himself under the care 
of the leeches there. His body lay on a sick-bed in 
Edinburgh, but his spirit roamed about the passages and 
galleries of the castle. The people heard the noises, 
and the slamming of doors, and the waving of tartans on 
the staircases, and did not know that it was the spirit of 
their sick master that troubled them. It was found out, 
however. The servants were frightened out of their wits 
by the unearthly voices, and the sounds of weeping, the 
waving of shadowy tartans, and the wringing of shadowy 
hands, and declared that they would no longer abide in 
the castle. At last a young man, from Kilmuir over 
there, said that if they would provide him with a sword 
and a Bible, and plenty to eat and drink, he \vould sit up 
in the hall all night and speak to the apparition. His 
oflfer was accepted, and he sat down to supper in the 
great hall with his sword di-awn and his Bible open on 
the table before him. At midnight he heard doors open 



292 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

and close, and the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and 
before he knew where he was there was Donald Gorm, 
dressed in tartan as if for feast or battle, standing on the 
floor and looking at him. * What do you want with me, 
Donald ? ' said the young man. ' I was in Edinburgh 
last night,' said the spirit, ' and I am in my own castle to- 
night. Don't be afraid, man ; there is more force in the 
little pebble which you chuck away from you with your 
finger and thumb than there is in my entire body of 
strength. Tell Donald Gorm Og — (" Donald's son, you 
know," interpolated the photographer) — tell Donald 
Gorm Og to stand up for the right against might, to be 
generous to the multitude, to have a charitable hand 
stretched out to the poor. Woe 's me ! woe 's me ! I have 
spoken to a mortal, and must leave the castle to-night,* 
and so the ghost of Donald vanished, and the young man 
was left sitting in the hall alone. Donald died in Edin- 
burgh and was buried there ; but after his death, as dur- 
ing his life, his spirit walked about here until the family 
was compelled to leave. It was a fine place once, but it 
has been crumbling away year by year, and is now 
broken and hollow like a witch's tooth. The story I have 
told you is devoutly believed by all the fishermen, herds- 
men, and milkmaids in the neighborhood. I think Mr. 
Maciver, the clergyman at Kilmuir, is the only person in 
the neighborhood who has no faith in it." This ghost- 
story the photographer capped by another, and when that 
was finished we went to bed. 

Next morning we went out to inspect the old castle, 
and found it a mere shell. Compared with its appear- 
ance the night before, when it stood in relief against the 
red sky, it was strangely unimpressive; a fragment of 
a tower and a portion of flanking wall stood erect ; there 



FLORA MACDONALD'S GRAVE. 293 

were traces of building down on the slope near the sea ; 
but all the rest was a mere rubble of fallen masonry. It 
had been despoiled in every way, — the elements had 
worn and battered it, the people of the district had for 
years back made it a quarry, and built out of it dwell- 
ings, outhouses, and dikes, making the past serve the 
purposes of the present. Sheep destined for the London 
market were cropping the herbage around its base, sug- 
gesting curious comparisons, and bringing into keener 
contrast antiquity and to-day. While we were loitering 
about the ruins the photographer came up, and under his 
guidance we went to visit Kilmuir churchyard, in which 
Flora Macdonald rests. We went along the stony road 
down which we had driven the night previously, the 
cliffs, lately so rosy, gray enough now, and the seethe of 
the fresh sea amongst the boulders and shingle beneath 
rather exhilarating than otherwise. After a walk of 
about a couple of miles we left the road, climbed up a 
grassy ascent, and found the churchyard there, enclosed 
by a low-stone wall. Everything was in hideous disre- 
pair. The gate was open, the tombstones were broken 
and defaced, and above the grave of the heroine nettles 
were growing more luxuriantly than any crop I had yet 
had the good fortune to behold in the island. Skye has 
only one historical grave to dress ; and she leaves it so. 
On expressing our surprise to the photographer, he told 
us that a London sculptor passing that way, and whose 
heart burned within him at the sight, had oflfered at sev- 
eral dinner-tables in the district to execute a bronze 
medallion of the famous lady gratis, provided his guests 
would undertake to have it properly placed, and to have 
a fitting inscription carved upon the pedestal. " The pro- 
posal was made, I know," said the photographer, "for 



'294 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

the sculptor told me about it himself. His proposal has 
not been taken up, nor is it likely to be taken up now. 
The country which treats the grave of a heroine after 
that fashion is not worthy to have a heroine. " Still " — 
he went eying the place critically, with his head a little 
to one side — " it makes a picturesque photograph as it 
stands, — perhaps better than if it were neat and tidy." 
"We plucked a nettle from the grave and then returned 
to Duntulm to breakfast. 

Shortly after breakfast our dog-cart was at the door, 
and followed by Duntulm and the photographer in a 
similar machine, we were on our way to Quirang. A 
drive of a couple of hours brought us to the base of 
the singular mountain. Tilting our vehicles, leaving the 
horses to roam about picking the short grass, and carry- 
ing with us materials for luncheon on the crest, we began 
the ascent. The day was fine, the sky cloudless, and -in 
an hour we were toiling past the rocky spire of the 
needle, and in fifteen minutes thereafter we reached the 
flat green plateau on the top. Here we lunched and 
Bang songs, and made mock heroic speeches in proposing 
each other's health. I had ascended the Quirang before 
in rain, and wind, and vapor, and could hardly recog- 
nize it now under the different atmospherical conditions. 
Then every stone was slippery, every runnel a torrent, 
the top of the needle lost in the flying mist, — everything 
looking spectral, weird, and abnormal. On the present 
occasion we saw it in fair sunlight ; and what the basalt 
columns, the shattered precipices, the projecting spiry 
rocks lost in terror they gained in beauty. Reclining 
on the soft green grass, — strange to find grass so girdled 
by fantastic crags, — we had, through fissures and the 
rents of ancient earthquake, the loveliest peeps of the 



CUCHULLINS. 295 

map-like under-world swathed in faint sea azure. An 
hour, perhaps, we lay there; and then began the lon^ 
descent. When we reached the dog-carts we exchano-ed 
a parting cup, and then Duntulm and the photographer 
returned home, and we hied on to Uig. 

Arriving at Uig we dined, — the bill of fare identical 
with that on the preceding day; the hard-boiled eggs, 
only a shade harder boiled, perhaps, — and tiien having 
settled with the kilted landlord, — the charge wondrously 
moderate, — we got out our own horse, and with the set- 
ting sun making splendid the Minch behind us, we started 
for Portree. It was eleven p. m. before we reached the 
little town, the moon was shining clearly, a stray candle 
or two twinkling in the houses, and when we reachcvl the 
hotel door the building was lighted up : it had been a 
fair-day, the prices for cattle were good, and over whis- 
key-punch farmer and drover were fraternizing. 

Next morning in the soft sky was the wild outline 
of the Cuchullins, with which we were again to make 
acquaintance. Somehow these hills never weary ; you 
never become familiar with them ; intimacy can no more 
stale them than it could the beauty of Cleopatra. From 
the hotel door I regarded them with as much interest as 
when, from the deck of the steamer off Ardnamurchan 
ten years ago, I first beheld them with their clouds on 
the horizon. While at breakfast in the public room, 
farmer and drover dropped in, — the more fiery-throated 
drinking pale ale instead of tea. After breakfast we 
were again in the dog-cart driving leisurely toward Sli- 
gaclian, the wonderful mountains beyond gradually losing 
tenderness of morning hue and growing worn and hoary, 
standing with sharper edges against the light, becoming 
rough with rocky knob and buttress, and grayly wrmkled 



296 A SUMMER m SKYE. 

with ravines. When we reached the inn we found it full 
of company, bells continually jangling, half a dozen ma- 
chines at the door, and a party of gentlemen in knicker- 
bockers starting with rods and fishing-baskets. Here we 
returned the dog-cart to the landlord, and began to ad- 
dress ourselves to the desolate glen stretching between 
the inn and Camasunary. 

In Glen Sligachan, although you lose sight of the 
CuchuUins proper, you are surrounded by their outlying 
and far-radiating spurs. The glen is some eight miles in 
length, and is wild and desolate beyond conception. 
Walking along, too, the reticulations of the hills are 
picked out with that pale greenish tint, which I had 
noted as characteristic of the hills seen from Lord Mac- 
donald's deer forest, and which gives one the idea of the 
overflow of chemical fluids, of metallic corrosions and dis- 
colorations. There is no proper path, and you walk in 
the loose debris of torrents; and in Glen Sligachan, as in 
many other parts of Skye, the scenery curiously repels 
you, and drives you in on yourself You have a quick- 
ened sense of your own individuality. The enormous 
bulks, their gradual recedings to invisible crests, their 
utter movelessness, their austere silence, daunt you. You 
are conscious of their presence, and you hardly care iq 
speak lest you be overheard. You can't laugh. You 
would not crack a joke for the world. Glen Sligachan 
would be the place to do a little bit of self-examination 
in. There you would have a sense of your own mean- 
nesses, selfishnesses, paltry evasions of truth and duty, 
and find out what a shabby fellow you at heart are, — 
and looking up to your silent father-confessors, you would 
find no mercy in their grim faces. I do not know what 
effect mountains have on the people who live habitually 



KILMAREE. 297 

amongst them, but the stranger they make serious and 
grave at heart. Through this glen we trudged silently 
enough, and when two thirds of the distance had been 
accomplished, it was with a feeling of relief that a lake 
was descried ahead. The sight of anything mobile, of an 
element that could glitter and dimple and dance, took 
away from the sense of the stony eternities, gray and 
wrinkled as with the traces of long-forgotten passion, 
listening forever, dumb forever. After rounding the lake, 
which plashed merrily on its margin, and clambering 
over a long waste of boulder, we saw, as we ascended a 
low flank of Blaavin, the Bay of Camasunary, the house, 
and the very boat which MTan had borrowed on the day 
we went to visit Loch Coruisk, below us. The tobacco- 
less man was nowhere visible, and I marvelled whether 
his messenger had yet returned from Broadford. 

When we got to the top of the hill we had to descend 
the slope to Kilmaree ; and as on my return from Loch 
Coruisk I had come down pleasantly under the guidance 
of MTan, I fancied, naturally enough, that I could act as 
guide on the present occasion. But there is a knack in 
descending hills as there is in everything else. First of 
all, I lost the narrow footpath at the top ; then as we 
were bound to reach Loch Eishart, and as Loch Eishart 
lay below us distinctly visible, I led directly for it ; but 
somehow we were getting continually on the wrong bank 
of a pestilent stream, which, through chasm and ravine, 
found its way to the sea by apparently the most circu- 
itous of courses. This stream we forded a dozen times 
at the least, and sometimes in imminent danger of a 
ducking. It was now late in the afternoon, and the 
weather had changed. The tops of the hills began to be 
lost in mist, and long hnes of sea fog to creep along the 

13* 



298 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

lower grounds. There was at intervals a slow drizzle of 
rain. Fetching a cunning circuit as I supposed, we 
found the inevitable stream again in our front, and got 
across it with difficulty, — happily for the last time. 
After we had proceeded about a hundred yards we came 
upon the lost pathway, and in fifteen minutes thereafter 
we were standing upon the shore of the Loch watching 
the flying scud of Atlantic mist, and the green waves 
rolling underneath with their white caps on. 

The question now arose, — By what means could we 
reach Mr. MTan ? There was no ferry at Kilmaree, but 
sundry boats were drawn up on the shore, and a couple 
were bobbing on the restless water at the stony pier. 
There were the boats certainly enough, but where were 
the boatmen ? In the neighborhood men could surely be 
obtained who, for a consideration, would- take us across. 
"We directed our steps to the lodge at Kilmaree, which 
seemed untenanted, and after some little trouble pene- 
trated into the region of the offices and outhouses. Here 
we found a couple of men chopping sticks, and to them 
my companion — who as a man of business and learned 
in the law was the spokesman on such occasions — ad- 
dressed himself. " You want to go over to Mr. MTan's 
to-night?" said the elder, desisting from his task, and 
standing up with his axe in his hand. " Yes, we are par- 
ticularly anxious to get across. Can you take us ? " 
*' I don't know ; you see we are no ferrymen, an' if we 
take you across we must leave our work." " Of course 
you must ; but we '11 pay you for your trouble." Here 
the two men exchanged a sentence or two of Gaelic, and 
then the elder wood-chopper asked, " Do you "know Mr. 
M'lan ? " "0 yes, we know him very well." " Does 
he expect you this night ? " " No ; but we are anxious 



ON LAKE EISHART. 299 

to see him, and he will be glad to see us." " I 'm no 
sure we can take you across," said the man, hesitatingly ; 
" you see the master is from home, an' the wind is rising, 
an' we 're no ferrymen, an' we '11 need to borrow a boat, 
an' " — here he hesitated still more — " it would cost 
you something." " Of course it will. What will you 
expect?" "Wad you think ten shillings too much?" 
" No, we '11 give you ten shillings," said Fellowes, clinch- 
ing the bargain. " And," said I, coming in like a swift 
charge of lancers on a half-disorganized battalion, and 
making victory complete, " we '11 give you a glass of 
spirits at the house, too, when you get across." The 
men then threw down their axes, put on their jackets, 
which hung on nails on the walls, and talking busily in 
Gaelic, led the way to the little stony pier where the 
boats were moored. 

" There 's a gale rising," said one of the men, as he 
pulled in a boat to the pier by a rope, " an' it '11 no be 
easy taking you across, and still harder to get back our- 
selves." As, however, to this expression of opinion we 
made no response, the men busied themselves with get- 
ting the boat to rights, testing the rollock pins, rolling in 
stones for ballast, examining the sail and ropes, and such 
like matters. In a short time we took our seats, and 
then the men pulled slowly out to sea in the opposite 
direction from Mr. M'Tan's house, in order to catch the 
wind, which was blowing freshly inland. The course of 
the boat was then changed, the oars shipped, the sail 
shaken out, and away we went through the green seas 
with long lurches, the foam gathering up high at the 
bows, hissing along the sides, and forming a long white 
wake behind. The elder man sat with the rope of the 
Bail m his hand, and taking a shrewd squint at the 



300 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

weather at intervals. When not so engaged, he was 
disposed to be talkative. " He 's a fine gentleman, Mr. 
M'lan, a vera fine gentleman ; an' vera good to the poor.'* 
" I miderstand," I said, " that he is the most generous 
of mankind." " He is that ; he never lets a poor man 
go past his door without a meal. Maybe, sir, ye '11 be 
a friend o' his ? " " Yes, both of us are friends of his, 
and friends of his son's too." " Maybe ye '11 be a rela- 
tion of his ? — he has many relations in the south coun- 
try." "No," I said, "no relation, only a friend. Do 
you smoke ? " " O yes, but I have forgot my spleu- 
chan." "I can provide you with tobacco," I said, and 
so when his pipe was lighted he became silent. 

We were now two thirds across, and the white watery 
mists hung low on tlie familiar coast as we approached. 
Gradually the well-known objects became defined in 
the evening light, — the clumps of birch-wood, the huts 
seated on the shore, the house, the cliffs behind on which 
the clouds lay half-way down. When we drew near the 
stony quay we noticed that we were the subjects of con- 
siderable speculation. It was but seldom that a boat 
stood across from the Strathaird coast, and by our glass 
we could see a group of the men-servants standing at 
the corner of the black kitchen watchinsr our move- 
ments, and Mr. M'lan himself coming out with his tele- 
scope. When the keel grated on the pebbles we got out. 
" Now, my men," said Fellowes, " come up to the house 
and have your promised glass of spirits ! " To our as- 
tonishment the men declined ; they could not wait, they 
were going back immediately. " But you must come," 
said my companion, who acted as purser, "for before 
I can pay you I must get Mr. M'lan to change me a 
sovereign. Come along." We climbed up to the house, 



MR. M'lAN AND THE BOATMEN. 301 

and were welcomed by Mr. M'lan, father and son, in the 
ivy-covered porch. "By the way," said Fellowes, "I 
M'ish you to change me a sovereign, as we have ten shil- 
lings to pay these men." "Did the scoundrels charge 
that sum for bringing you over ? It 's extortion ; five 
shillings is quite enough. Let me go and speiik to them." 
" But," remonstrated Fellowes, •' we don't consider the 
charge immoderate: we made the bargain with them: 
and so anxious were we to be here that we would will- 
ingly have paid them double." " Don't talk to me," 
cried M'lan, as he put on his hat and seized his stick. 
" Why, you rascals, did you charge these gentlemen ten 
shillings for taking them across the Loch ? You know 
you are well .enough paid if you get half." " Sir," said 
the elder man, respectfully, while both touched their 
bonnets, " we '11 just take what you please ; just anything 
you like, Mr. M'lan." " Don't you see the mischief you 
do and the discredit you bring on the country by this 
kind of thing ? Every summer the big lying blackguard 
Times is crammed with complaints of tourists who have 
been cheated by you and the like of you, — although 
I don't believe half the stories. These fools " — here 
the old gentleman made reference to us by a rapid back- 
ward chuck of his thumb — "may go home to the south 
and write to the newspapers about you." " The bargain 
the gentlemen made was ten shillings," said the man, 
" but if you think we have asked too much we '11 take 
six. But it 's for your sake we '11 take it, not for theirs." 
" They 're honest fellows these," cried the old gentle- 
man, as he poured the coins into the palm of the elder 
man; "Alick, bring them out a dram." The dram, 
prefaced by a word or two of Gaelic, to which Mr. 
MTan nodded, was duly s\^'allo\ved, and the men, touch- 



302 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

ing their bonnets, descended to their boat. The old 
gentleman led the way into the house, and we had no 
sooner reached the porch than my companion remem- 
bered that he had left something, and ran down to fetch 
it. He returned in a little while, and in the course of 
the evening he gave me to understand that he had seen 
the boatmen, and fully implemented his promise. 

The wind had changed during the night, and next 
morning broke forth gloriously — not a speck of vapor 
on the Cuchullins ; the long stretch of Strathaird wonder- 
fully distinct ; the Loch bright in sunlight. When we 
got down to breakfast we found Mr. MTan alone. His 
son, he said, had been on the hill since four o'clock in 
the morning gathering the lambs together, and that 
about noon he and his assistants would be branding them 
at the fank. When breakfast was over, — Fellowes, 
having letters to write, remained in doors, — I and the 
old gentleman went out. We went up the glen, and 
as we drew near the fank we saw a number of men 
standing about, their plaids thrown on the turfen walls, 
with sheep-dogs couched thereupon; a thick column of 
peat-smoke rising up smelt easily at the distance of half 
a mile ; no sheep were visible, but the air was filled with 
bleatings, — undulating with the clear plaintive trebles 
of innumerable ewes, and the hoarser baa of tups. When 
we arrived we found the narrow chambers and com- 
partments at one end of the fank crowded with lambs, so 
closely wedged together that they could hardly move, 
and between these chambers and compartments temporary 
barriers erected, so that no animal could pass from one to 
the other. The shepherds must have had severe work 
of it that morning. It was as yet only eleven o'clock, 
and since early dawn they and their dogs had coursed 



LAMB BRANDING. 303 

over an area of ten miles, sweeping every hill face, 
visiting every glen, and driving down rills of sheep 
toward this central spot. Having got the animals down, 
the business of assortment began. The most perfect 
ewes — destined to be the mothers of the next brood of 
lambs on the farm — were placed in one chamber ; the 
second best, whose fate it was to be sold at Inverness, 
were placed in a congeries of compartments, the one 
opening into the other ; the inferior qualities — shots, as 
they are technically called — occupied a place by them- 
selves ; these also to be sold at Inverness, but at lower 
prices than the others. The fank is a large square en- 
closure ; the compartments into which the bleating flocks 
w^ere huddled occupied about one half of the walled-in 
space, the remainder being perfectly vacant. One of the 
compartments opened into this space, but a temporary 
barrier prevented all egress. Just at the mouth of this 
barrier we could see the white ashes and the dull orange 
glow of the peat-fire in which some half-dozen branding- 
irons were heating. When everything was prepared, two 
or three men entered into this open space. One took his 
seat on a large smooth stone by the side of the peat-fire, 
a second vaulted into the struggling mass of heads and 
fleeces, a third opened the barrier slightly, lugged out a 
struggling lamb by the horns, and consigned it to the care 
of the man seated on the smooth stone. This worthy got 
the animal dexterously between his legs, so that it was 
unable to struggle, laid its head down on his thigh, seized 
from the orange glow of the smouldering peat-fire one of 
the red-hot branding-irons, and with a hiss, and a slight 
curl of smoke, drew it in a diagonal direction across its 
nose. Before the animal was sufficiently branded the 
iron had to be applied twice or thrice. It was then re- 



304 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

leased, and trotted bleating into the open space, perhaps 
making a curious bound on the way as if in bravado, or 
shaking its head hurriedly as if snuff had been thrown 
into its eyes. All day this branding goes on. The peat- 
fire is replenished when needed ; another man takes his 
seat on the smooth stone ; by two o'clock a string of 
women bring up dinner from the house, and all the while, 
young M'lan sits on the turfen wall, note-book in hand, 
setting down the number of the lambs and their respective 
qualities. Every farmer has his own peculiar brand, and 
by it he can identify a member of his stock, if it should 
go astray. The brand is to the farmer what a trade- 
mark is to a manufacturer. These brands are familiar 
to the drovers even as the brands of wine and cigars are 
familiar to the connoisseurs in these articles. The opera- 
tion looks a cruel one, but it is not perfectly clear that 
the sheep suffer much under it. While under the iron 
they are perfectly quiet, — they neither bleat nor strug- 
gle, and when they get off they make no sign of discom- 
fort save the high bound or the restless shake of the 
head already mentioned, — if indeed these are signs of 
discomfort, — a conclusion which no sheep farmer will in 
anywise allow. In a minute or so they are cropping herb- 
age in the open space of the fank, or if the day is warm, 
lying down in the cool shadows of the walls as com- 
posedly as if nothing had happened. 

Leaning against the fank walls we looked on for about 
an hour, by which time a couple of hundred Iambs had 
been branded, and then we went up the glen to inspect 
a mare and foal of which Mr. MTan was specially proud. 
Returning in the direction of the house, the old gentle- 
man pointed out what trenching had been done, what 
walls had been built in my absence, and showed me on 



im. M'lAN ON DEATH. 305 

the other side of the stream what brushwood he meant 
to clear next spring for potatoes, what fields he would 
give to the people for their crops, what fields he would 
reserve for his own use. Flowing on in this way with 
scheme and petty detail of farm-work, he suddenly turned 
round on me with a queer look in his face. " Is n't it 
odd that a fellow like me, standing on the brink of tlie 
grave, should go pottering about day after day thinking 
of turnips and oats, tups and ewes, cows and foals ? The 
chances are that the oats I sow I shall never live to reap, 
— that I shall be gone before the blossom comes on my 
potatoes." 

The strangeness of it had often struck me before, but 
I said nothing. 

"I suppose it is best that I should take an interest 
in these things," went on the old gentleman. " Death 
is so near me that I can hear him as if it were through 
a crazy partition. I know he is there. I can hear him 
moving about continually. My interest in the farm is 
the partition that divides us. If it were away I should 
be with him face to face." 

Mr. MTan was perhaps the oldest man in the island, 
and he did not dislike talking about his advanced age. 
A man at fifty-five, perhaps, wishes to be considered 
younger than he really is. The man above ninety has 
outlived that vanity. He is usually as proud of the 
years he has numbered as the commander of the battles 
he has won, or the millionnaire of the wealth he has ac- 
quired. In respect of his great age, such a one is singu- 
lar amongst his fellows. ' After a little pause Mr. M'lan 
flowed on : 

"I remember very well the night the century came 
in. My regiment was then l}ing in the town of Giilway 

T 



306 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

in Ireland. We were all at supper that evening at the 
quarters of Major M'Manus, our commanding officer. 
Very merry we were, singing songs and toasting the 
belles we knew. Well, when twelve o'clock struck the 
Major rose and proposed in a flowing bowl the health 
of the stranger — the nineteenth century — coupled with 
the hope that it would be a better century than the 
other. I 'm not sure that it has been a whit better, so 
far at least as it has gone. For thirty years I have been 
the sole survivor of that merry table." 

" Sixty -five years is a long time to look back, Mr. 
M'lan." 

The old gentleman walked on laughing to himself. 
" What fools men are, — doctors especially ! I was very 
ill shortly after with a liver complaint, and was sent to 
Edinburgh to consult the great doctors and professors 
there. They told me I was dying ; that I had not many 
months to live. The fools ! they are dead, their sons 
are dead, and here I am, able to go about yet. I suppose 
they thought that I would take their stuffs." 

By this time we had reached the house. Mr. MTan 
left his white hat and staff in the porch : he then went 
to the cupboard and took out a small spirit case in which 
he kept bitters cunningly compounded. He gave Fel- 
lowes and myself — Fellowes had finished his letters 
by this time — a tiny glassful, took the same amount 
himself. We then all went out and sat down on a rocky 
knoll near the house which looked seaward, and talked 
about Sir John Moore and Wellington till dinner-time. 

We stayed with the MTan s for a couple of days, and 
on the third we drove over to Ardvasar to catch the 
steamer there that afternoon on its way to Portree. 

As we drove slowly up the glen, my companion said, 



SLEAT. 307 

"That old gentleman is to my mind worth Blaavin, 
Coniisk, Glen Sligachan, and all the rest of it. In his 
own way he is just as picturesque and strange as they 
are. When he goes, the island will have lost one of 
its peculiar charms." 

"He is a thorough Islesraan," said I; "and for him 
Blaavin forms as appropriate a background as the desert 
for the Arab, or the prairie for the Pawnee Indian. 
When he dies it will be like the dying of the last eagle. 
He is about the end of the old stock. The younger 
generation of Skyemen will never be like their fathers. 
They have more general information than their elders, 
they have fewer prejudices, they are more amenable to 
advice, much less stubborn and self-willed, — but they 
are by comparison characterless. In a few years, when 
they will have the island in their own hands, better 
sheep will be produced I have no doubt, finer qualities 
of wool will be sent south, grand hotels will be erected 
here and there, — but for all that Skye will have be- 
come tame : it will have lost that unpurchasable some- 
thing, — human character; and will resemble Blaavin 
shorn of its mist-wreaths." 

When we reached the top of the glen, and dropped 
down on the Parliamentary Road near the lake of water- 
lilies, we held our way, to the right, toward the point 
of Sleat. We passed the farm of Knock, the white 
outhouses, the church and school-house, the old castle 
on the shore, and driving along, we could pleasantly de- 
pasture our eyes on the cultivated ground, with a pictu- 
resque hut perched here and there ; the towering masses 
of the Knoydart hills and the Sound of Sleat between. 
Sleat is the best wooded, the sunniest, and most carefully 
cultivated portion of the island ; and passing along the 



308 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

road the traveller is struck with signs of blithe industry 
and contentment. As you draw near Armadale Castle 
you can hardly believe that you are in Skye at all. The 
hedges are as trim as English hedges, the larch planta- 
tions which cover the faces of the low hills that look 
towards the sea are not to be surpassed by any larch 
plantations in the country. The Ai'madale home farm 
is a model of neatness, the Armadale porter-lodges are 
neat and white ; and when, through openings of really 
noble trees, you obtain a glimpse of the castle itself, a 
handsome modern-looking building rising from sweeps 
of closely-shaven lawn, you find it hard to believe that 
you are within a few miles of the moory desolation that 
stretches between Isle Oronsay and Broadford. Great 
lords and great seats, independent of the food they pro- 
vide the imagination, are of the highest practical uses 
to a country. From far Duntulm Macdonald has come 
here and settled, and around him to their very tops the 
stony hills laugh in green. Great is the power of gold. 
Drop a sovereign into the hat of the mendicant seated 
by the wayside and into his face you bring a pleasant 
light. Bestow on land what gold can purchase, Labor, 
and of the stoniest aridity you make an emerald. 

Ardvasar is situated about the distance of a mile 
from«the Armadale plantations, and counts perhaps some 
twenty houses. A plain inn stands by the wayside, 
Mdiere refreshments may be procured; there is a mer- 
chant's shop filled with goods of the most miscellaneous 
description ; in this little place also resides a most im- 
portant personage, — the agent of the Messrs. Hutche- 
son, who is learned in the comings and goings of the 
steamers. On our arrival, we learned from the agent 
that the steamer on the present occasion would be un- 



WAITING THE STEAMER. 309 

usually late, as slie had not yet been sighted between 
Ardnamurchan and Eig. In all probability she would 
not be off Ardvasar till ten p. m. It is diflicult to kill 
time anywhere ; but at this little Skye clachan it is more 
difficult than almost anywhere else. We fed the horse, 
and returned it and the dog-cart to Mr. M'lan. "We sat 
in the inn and looked aimlessly out of the window ; we 
walked along the ravine, and saw the stream sleeping in 
brown pools, and then hurrying on in tiny waterfalls ; we 
watched the young barbarians at play in the wide green 
in front of the houses ; we lounged in the merchant's 
shop ; we climbed to the top of eminences and looked sea- 
ward, and imagined fondly that we beheld a streak of 
steamer smoke on the horizon. The afternoon wore 
away, and then we had tea at the inn. By this the 
steamer had been visible some little time, and had gone 
in to Eig. After tea we carried our traps down to the 
stony pier and placed them in the boat which would 
convey us to the steamer when she lay to in the bay. 
Thereafter we spent an hour in watching men blasting 
a huge rock in a quarry close at hand. We saw the 
train laid and lighted, the men scuttling off, and then 
there was a dull report, and the huge rock tumbled 
quietly over in ruins. When we got back to the pier, 
passengers were gathering, — drovers with their dogs ; 
ancient women in scarlet plaids and white caps, going 
on to Balmacara or Kyle ; a sailor, fresh from China, 
dressed in his best clothes, with a slate-colored parrot in 
a wicker cage, which he was conveying to some young 
people at Broadford. On the stony pier we waited for 
a considerable time, and then Mr. Hutcheson's agent, 
accompanied by some half-dozen men, came down in a 
hurry; into the boat we were all bundled, — drovers, 



810 A SUmiER IN SKYE. 

dogs, ancient women, sailor, parrot, and all, — the boat 
shoved off, the agent stood up in the bow, the men bent 
to their oars, and by the time we were twenty boat- 
lengths from the pier the Clansman had slid into the 
bay opposite the castle and lay to, letting off volumes 
of noisy steam. 

When the summer night was closing, the Clansman 
steamed out of Armadale Bay. Two or three ladies 
were yet visible on the deck. Wrapped in their plaids, 
and with their dogs around them, drovers were smoking 
amidships ; sportsmen in knickerbockers were smoking 
on the hurricane deck ; and from the steerage came at 
intervals a burst of canine thunder from the leashes of 
pointers and setters congregated there. As the night 
fell the air grew cold, the last lady disappeared, the 
sportsmen withdrew from their airy perches, amidships 
the pipe of the drover became a point of intense red. 
In the lighted cabin gentlemen were drinking whiskey- 
punch, and discussing, as their moods went, politics, the 
weather, the fluctuations in the price of stock, and the 
condition of grouse. Among these we sat ; and my 
companion fell into conversation with a young man of 
an excited manner and a restless eye. I could see at a 
glance that he belonged to the same class as my tobacco- 
less friend of Glen Sligachan. On Fellowes he bestowed 
his entire biography, — made known to him the name of 
his family, — which was, by the way, a noble one, — vol- 
unteered the information that he had served in the Med- 
iterranean squadron, that he had been tried by a court- 
martial for a misdemeanor of which he was entirely 
guiltless, and had through the testimony of nefarious 
witnesses been dismissed the service. While all this 
talk was going on the steward and his assistants had 



THE EX-NAVAL MAN. 311 

swept away the glasses from the saloon table, and from 
the oddest corners and receptacles were now drawing out 
pillows, sheets, and blankets. In a trice e very thin f^ be- 
came something else, — the sofas of the saloon became 
beds, the tables of the saloon became beds, beds were 
spread on the saloon floor, beds were extemporized near 
the cabin windows. When the transformation had been 
completed, and several of the passengers had coiled them- 
selves comfortably in their blankets, the remainder strug- 
gling with their boots, or in various stages of dishabille, 
the ex-naval man suddenly called out, " Steward ! " 

That functionary looked in at the saloon door in an 
instant. 

" Bring me a glass of brandy and water." 

" It 's quite impossible, Mr. ," said the steward ; 

" the spirit-room is shut for the night. Besides, you have 
had a dozen glasses of brandy and water to-day already. 
You had better go to bed, sir." 

" Did n't I tell you," said the ex-naval man, addressing 
Fellowes, who had by this time got his coat and vest off, — 
" did n't I tell you that the whole world is in a conspiracy 
against me ? It makes a dead set at me. That fellow 
now is as great a foe of mine as was the commodore at 
Malta." 

Fellowes made no reply, and got into bed. I followed 
his example. The ex-naval man sat gloomily alone for a 
while, and then with the assistance of the steward he un- 
dressed and clambered into a cool berth beside one of the 
cabin windows. Thereafter the lights were turned low. 

I could not sleep, however; the stifling air of the 
place, in which there lived a faint odor of hot brandy 
and water, and the constant throb throb of the engines, 
kept me awake. I turned from one side to the other, till 



312 A SUMMER m SKYE. 

at last my attention was attracted by the movements of 
my strange friend opposite. He raised his head stealthily 
and took covert survey of the saloon ; then he leant on his 
elbow ; then he sat upright in his berth. That feat 
accomplished, he began to pour forth to some imaginary 
auditor the story of his wrongs. 

He had not gone on long when a white night-capped 
head bounced up in a far corner of the dim saloon. 
" Will you be good enough," said the pale apparition in 
a severe voice, " to go to sleep ? It 's monstrous, sir, 
that you should disturb gentlemen at this hour of the 
night by your nonsensical speeches." 

At the sight and the voice the ex-naval man sank into 
his berth as suddenly as an alarmed beaver sinks into his 
dam, and there was silence for a time. 

Shortly, from the berth, I saw the ex-naval man's 
head rising as stealthily as the head of a blackcock 
above a bunch of rushes. Again he sat up in bed, and 
again to the same invisible auditor he confided his pe- 
culiar griefs. 

" Confound you, sir." " What do you mean, sir ? " and 
at the half-dozen white apparitions confronting him the 
ex-naval man again dived. 

In about ten minutes the head opposite began again to 
stir. Never from ambush did Indian warrior rise more 
noiselessly than did the ex-naval man from his blankets. 
He paused for a little on his elbow, looked about him 
cautiously, got into a sitting position, and began a third 
harangue. 

" What the devil ! " " This is intolerable ! " « Stew- 
ard, steward ! " " Send the madman on deck " ; and the 
saloon rose en masse against the disturber of its rest. 
The steward came running in at the outcry, but the ex- 



THE EX-NAVAL MAN. 313 

naval man had ducked under like a shot, and was snoring 
away in simulated slumber as if he had been the Seven 
Sleepers rolled into one. 

That night he disturbed our rest no more, and shortly 
alter I fell asleep. 

A fierce trampling on deck, and the noise of the crane 
hoisting the cargo from the deep recesses of the hold 
awoke me. I dressed and went above. The punctual 
sun was up and at his work. We were off a strip of 
sandy beach, with a row of white houses stretching along 
it, and -with low rocky hills behind the houses. Some 
half-dozen deeply laden shore boats were leaving the 
side of the steamer. Then a cow was brought forward, a 
door was opened in the bulwarks, and the animal quietly 
shoved out. Crummie disappeared with a considerable 
plunge, and came to the surface somewhat scant of 
breath, and wdth her mind in a state of utter bewilder- 
ment. A boat was in readiness ; by a deft hand a coil 
of rope was fastened around the horns, the rowers bent 
to their task, and Crummie was towed ashore in triumph, 
and on reaching it seemed nothing the worse of her un- 
expected plunge forth. 

The noisy steam was then shut off; from the moving 
paddles great belts of pale-green foam rushed out and 
died away far astern; the strip of beach, the white 
houses with the low rocky hills behind, began to disap- 
pear, and the steamer stood directly for Portree, which 
place was reached in time for breakfast. We then drove 
to the Landlord's, and on alighting I found my friend 
John Penruddock marchmg up and down on the gi-avel 
in front of the house. 



14 



314 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 



JOHN PENRUDDOCK. 

PENRUDDOCK was rather a hero of mine. He 
was as tall, muscular, and broad-shouldered as the 
men whom Mr. Kingsley delights to paint, and his heart 
was as tender as his head was shrewd. A loquacious 
knave could not take him in, and from his door a beggar 
would not be sent empty away. The pressure of his 
mighty hand when he met you gave you some idea of 
what the clenched fist would be with its iron ridge of 
knuckles. He was the healthiest-minded man I have 
ever met in my walk through life. He was strong, yet 
gentle ; pious, yet without the slightest tincture of cant 
or dogmatism ; and his mind was no more infested with 
megrims, or vanity, or hypochondriasis, or sentimentality, 
than the wind-swept sky of June with vapors. He was 
loyal and affectionate to the backbone ; he stuck to his 
friends to the last. Pen was like the run of ordinary 
mortals while your day of prosperity remained, but when 
your night of difficulty fell he came out like a lighthouse, 
and sent you rays of encouragement and help. 

Pen had farms in Ireland as well as in Skye, and it 
was when on a visit to him in Ulster some years since 
that I became acquainted with his homely but enduring 
merits. For years I had not seen such a man. There 
was a reality and honest stuff in him, which in living 
with him and watching his daily goings on revealed itself 
hour by hour, quite new to me. The people I had been 
accustomed to meet, talk with, live with, were different. 



JOHN PENRUDDOCK. 315 

The tendency of each of these was towards art in one 
form or other. And there was a certain sadness some- 
how in the contemplation of them. They fought and 
strove bravely ; but like the Old Guard at Waterloo, it 
was brave fighting on a lost field. After years of toil 
there were irremediable defects in that man's picture; 
fatal flaws in that man's book. In all their efforts were 
failure and repulse, apparent to some extent to them- 
selves, plain enough to the passionless looker-on. That 
resolute, hopeless climbing of heaven was, according to 
the mood, a thing to provoke a jest or a sigh. With 
Penruddock all was different. What he strove after he 
accomplished. He had a cheerful mastery over circum- 
stances. All things went well with him. His horses 
ploughed for him, his servants reaped for him, his mills 
ground for him, successfully. The very winds and dews 
of heaven were to him helps and aids. Year after year 
his crops grew, yellowed, were cut down and gathered 
into barns, and men fed thereupon ; and year after year 
there lay an increasing balance at his banker's. This 
continual, ever-victorious activity seemed strange to me, 
— a new thing under the sun. We usually think that 
poets, painters, and the like are finer, more heroical, than 
cultivators of the ground. But does the production of a 
questionable book really surpass in merit the production 
of a field of unquestionable turnips? Perhaps in the 
severe eyes of the gods the production of a wooden por- 
ringer, water-tight, and fit for household uses, is of more 
account than the rearing of a tower of Babel, meant to 
reach to heaven. Alas ! that so many must work on 
these Babel towers ; cannot help toiling on them to the 
very death, though every stone is heaved into its place 
with weariness and mortal pain ; though when the life of 



316 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

the builder is wasted out on it, it is fit habitation for no 
creature, can shelter no one from rain or snow, — but 
towering in the eyes of men a Folly (as the Scotch phrase 
it) after all. 

I like to recall my six weeks' sojourn in sunny Ulster 
with my friend. I like to recall the rows of whity-green 
willows that bordered the slow streams ; the yellow flax- 
fields with their azure flowers, reminding one of the 
maidens in German ballads ; the flax-tanks and wind- 
mills ; the dark-haired girls embroidering muslins before 
the doors, and stealing the while the hearts of sheepish 
sweethearts leaning against the cottage walls, by soft 
blarney and quick glances; the fields in which a cow, 
a donkey, half a dozen long-legged porkers, — looking for 
all the world like pigs on stilts, — cocks and hens, ducks 
and geese promiscuously fed ; and, above all, I like to 
recall that somnolent Sunday afternoon in the little un- 
comfortably-seated Presbyterian church, when — two 
thirds of the congregation asleep, the precentor soundest 
of all, and the good clergyman illustrating the doctrine 
of the Perseverance of the Saints by a toddler at its 
mother's knee attempting to walk, falling and bumping 
its forehead, getting picked up, and in a little while, 
although the bump had grown to the size of an egg, spur- 
ring and struggling to get to the floor once again — my 
eye wandered to the open church door, and in the sun- 
shine saw a feeding bee fold its wings on a flower and 
swing there in the wind, and I forgot for a while drawl- 
ing shepherd and slumbering flock. These are trifles, 
but they are pleasant trifles. Staying with Pen, how- 
ever, an event of importance did occur. 

It was arranged that we should go to the fair at 
Keady; but Pen was obliged on the day immediately 



JOHN PENRUDDOCK. 817 

preceding to leave his farm at Arranraore on matter 
of important business. It was a wretched day of rain, 
and I began to tremble for the morrow. After dinner 
the storm abated, and the dull dripping afternoon set in. 
While a distempered sunset flushed the west, the heavy 
carts from the fields came rolling into the courtyard, the 
horses fetlock-deep in clay, and steaming like ovens. 
Then, at the sound of the bell, the laborers came, Avet, 
weary, sickles hanging over their arms, yet with spirits 
merry enough. These the capacious kitchen received, 
where they found supper spread. It grew dark earlier 
than usual, and more silent. The mill-wheel rushed 
louder in the swollen stream, and lights besan to sflim- 
mer here and there in the dusty windows. Penruddock 
had not yet come ; he was not due for a couple of hours. 
Time began to hang heavily ; so, slipping to bed, I solved 
every difficulty by falling soundly asleep. 

The lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, the bark- 
ing of dogs, and the loud voices of men in the courtyard 
beneath, awoke me shortly after dawn. In the silence 
that followed I again fell asleep, and was roused at last 
by the clangor of the breakfast-bell. When I got up 
the sun was streaming gloriously through the latticed 
window ; heaven was all the gayer and brighter for 
yesterday's gloom and sulky tears, and the rooks were 
cawing and flapping cheerfully in the trees above. When 
I entered the breakfast-room Pen was already there, and 
the tea-urn was bubbling on the table. 

At the close of the meal Tim brought the dog-cart 
to the door. Pen glanced at his watch. " We have hit 
the time exactly, and will arrive as soon as Mick and the 
cattle." There was an encouraging chir-r-r, a flick of 
the whip, and in a trice we were across the bridge and 
pegging along the highway at a great pace. 



318 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

After proceeding about a mile, we turned into a nar- 
row path which gradually led us up into a wild irregular 
country. Corn-fields, flax-tanks, and sunny pasture-lands, 
dotted with sheep, were left behind as up hill we tugged, 
and reached at last a level stretch of purple moor and 
black peat-bog. Sometimes for a mile the ground was 
black with pyramids of peat; at other times the road 
wriggled before us through a dark olive morass, enlivened 
here and there with patches of treacherous green ; the 
sound of our wheels startling into flight the shy and 
solitary birds native to the region. Ever and anon, too, 
when we gained sufficient elevation, we could see the 
great waves of the landscape rolling in clear morning 
light away to the horizon, each wave crested with farms 
and belts of woodland, and here and there wreaths of 
smoke rising up from hollows where towns and villages 
lay hid. After a while the road grew smoother, and afar 
the little town of Keady sparkled in the sun, backed by 
a range of smelting-furnaces, the flames tamed by the 
sunlight, making a restless shimmer in the air, and blot- 
ting out everything beyond. Beneath, the high road was 
covered with sheep and cows, and vehicles of every de- 
scription, pushing forward to one point; the hill-paths, 
also, which led down to it, were moving threads of life. 
On the brow of the hill, just before we began to descend, 
John pulled up for a moment. It was a pretty sight. 
A few minutes' drive brought us into Keady, and such 
a busy scene I had never before witnessed. The narrow 
streets and open spaces were crowded with stalls, cattle, 
and people, and the press and confusion was so great that 
our passage to the inn where our machine was to be put 
up was matter of considerable difficulty. Men, stripped 
to trousers and shirt, with red hair streaming in the 



THE FAIR AT KEADY. 319 

wind, rushed backwards and forwards with horses, giv- 
ing vent at the same time to the wildest vociferations, 
while clumps of sporting gentlemen, with straws in their 
mouths, were inspecting, with critical eyes, the points of 
the animals. Travelling auctioneers set up their little 
carts in the streets, and with astonishing effrontery and 
power of lung harangued the crowd on the worth and 
cheapness of the articles which they held in their hands. 
Beggars were very plentiful, — disease and deformity 
their stock-in-trade. Fragments of humanity crawled 
about upon crutches. Women stretched out shrunken 
arms. Blind men rolled sightless eyeballs, blessing the 
passenger when a copper tinkled in their iron jugs, — 
cursing yet more fervently when disappointed in their 
expectation. In one place a melancholy acrobat in dirty 
tights and faded tinsel was performing evolutions with 
a crazy chair on a bit of ragged carpet ; he threw somer- 
saults over it ; he embraced it firmly, and began spinning 
along the ground hke a wheel, — in which performance 
man and chair seemed to lose their individuality and 
become one as it were ; and at the close of every feat 
he stood erect with that indescribable curve of the right 
hand which should always be followed by thunders of 
applause, the clown meanwhile rolling in ecstasies of 
admiration in the sawdust. Alas ! no applause followed 
the exertions of the artist. The tights were getting more 
threadbare and dingy. His hollow face was covered with 
perspiration, and there was but the sparsest sprinkling of 
halfpence. I threw him a shilling, but it rolled among 
the spectators' feet, and was lost in the dust. He groped 
about in search of it for some little time, and then came 
back to his carpet and his crazy chair. Poor fellow ! he 
looked as if he were used to that kind of thing. Tliere 



320 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

were many pretty faces among the girls, and scores of 
them were walking about in holiday dresses, — rosy-faced 
lasses, with black hair, and blue eyes shadowed by long 
dark eyelashes. How they laughed, and how sweetly 
the brogue melted from their lips in reply to the ardent 
blarney of their sweathearts. At last we reached an 
open square, — or cross, as it would be called in Scotland, 
— more crowded, if possible, than the narrow streets. 
Hordes of cattle bellowed here. Here were sheep from 
the large farms standing: in clusters of fifties and hun- 
dreds ; there a clump of five or six, with the widow in 
her clean cap sitting beside them. Many an hour ago 
she and they started from the turf hut and the pasture 
beyond the hills. Heaven send her a ready sale and 
good prices ! In the centre of this open space great 
benches were erected, heaped with eggs, butter, cheeses, 
the proprietors standing behind anxiously awaiting the 
advances of customers. One section was crowded with 
sweetmeat stalls, much frequented by girls and their 
sweethearts. Many a rustic compliment there had for 
reply a quick glance or a scarlet cheek. Another was 
devoted to poultry, — geese stood about in flocks ; bunches 
of hens were scattered on the ground, their legs tied 
together ; and turkeys, enclosed in wicker baskets, sur- 
veyed the scene with quick eyes, their wattles all the 
while burning with indignation. On reaching the inn 
which displayed for ensign a swan with two heads afloat 
on an azure stream, we ordered dinner at three o'clock, 
and thereafter started on foot to where Penruddock's 
stock was stationed. It was no easy matter to force a 
path, — cows and sheep were always getting in the way. 
Now and then an escaped hen would come clucking and 
flapping among our feet, and once a huge bull, with horns 



BARGAIN-MAKING. 321 

levelled to the charge, came dashing down the street, 
scattering everything before him. Finally, we reached 
the spot where Mick and his dogs were keeping watch 
over the cows and sheep. 

" Got here all safe, Mick, I see." 
" All safe, sir, not a quarter o' an hour ago." 
" Well, I have opened my shop. We '11 see how we 
get on." 

By this time the dealers had gathered about, and were 
closely examining the sheep, and holding whispered 
consultations. At length an excited-looking man came 
running forward; plunging his hand into his breeches 
pocket, he produced therefrom half a crown, which he 
slapped into Penruddock's hand, at the same time crying 
out, " Ten-and-six a head." " Fifteen," said John, return- 
ing the coin. " Twelve shillings," said the man, bring- 
ing down the coin with tremendous energy ; " an' may 
I niver stir if I '11 give another farthin' for the best 
sheep in Keady." " Fifteen," said John, flinging the 
half-crown on the ground; "and I don't care whether 
you stir again or not." By this time a crowd had gath- 
ered about, and the chorus began. "There is n't a 
dacenter man than Mr. Penruddock in the market. I 've 
known him iver since he came to the counthry." " Shure 
an' he is," began another ; " he 's a jintleman ivery 
inch. He always gives to the poor man a bit o' baccy, 
or a glass. Ach, Mr. Loney, he 's not the one to ax 
you too high a price. Shure, Mr. Penruddock, you '11 
come down a sixpence jist to make a bargain." "Is't 
Mr. Loney that 's goin' to buy ? " cried a lame man from 
the opposite side, and in the opposite interest. " There 
is n't sich a dealer in county Monaghan as Mr. Loney. 
Of coorse you'll come down something, Mr. Penrud- 

14* tJ 



322 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

dock." " He 's a rich one, too, is Mr. Loney," said the 
lame man, sidling up to John, and winking in a know- 
ing manner, " an' a power o' notes he has in his pocket- 
book." Mr. Loney, who had been whispering with his 
group a little apart, and who had again made an inspec- 
tion of the stock, returned the second time to the charge. 
" Twelve-an'-six," cried he, and again the half-crown was 
slapped into Penruddock's palm. "Twelve-an'-six, an' 
not another farthin' to save my soul." "Fifteen," said 
John, returning the half-crown with equal emphasis; 
" you know my price, and if you won't take it you can 
let it stand." The dealer disappeared in huge wrath, 
and the chorus broke out in praises of both. By this 
time Mr. Loney was again among the sheep ; it was plain 
his heart was set upon the purchase. Every now and 
then he caught one, got it between his legs, examined 
the markings on its face, and tested the depth and quality 
of its wool. He appeared for the third time, while the 
lame man and the leader of the opposing chorus seemed 
coming to blows, so zealous were they in the praises 
of their respective heroes. " Fourteen," said Mr. Loney, 
again producing the half-crown, spitting into his hand 
at the same time, as much as to say, he would do the 
business now. " Fourteen," he cried, crushing the half- 
crown into Penruddock's hand, and holding it there. 
" Fourteen, an' divil a rap more I '11 give." " Fourteen," 
said John, as if considering, then throwing back the 
coin, " Fourteen-and-six, and let it be a bargain." 

" Did n't I say," quoth John's chorus leader, looking 
round him with an air of triumph, " did n't I say that 
Mr. Penruddock 's a jintleman ? Ye see how he drops 
the sixpence. I niver saw him do a mane thing yet. 
Ach, he 's the jintleman ivery inch, an' that 'b saying a 
dale, considerin' his size." 



BARGAIN-MAKING. 323 

" Fourteen-ancl-six be it then," said the dealer, bring- 
ing down the coin for tlie last time. " An' if I take the 
lot you '11 give me two pounds in t' myself? " , 

" Well, Loney, I don't care although I do," said Pen- 
ruddock, pocketing the coin at last. A roll of notes was 
produced, the sum counted out, and the bargain con- 
cluded. The next moment Loney was among the 
sheep, scoring some mark or other on their backs with 
a piece of red chalk. Penruddock scattered what spare 
coppers he possessed among the bystanders, and away 
they went to sing the praises of the next bargain-maker. 

Pen turned to me, laughing. " This is a nice occupa- 
tion for a gentleman of res^Dectable birth and liberal 
education, is it not ? " 

" Odd. It is amusing to watch the process by which 
your sheep are converted into bank-notes. Does your 
friend, Mr. Loney, buy the animals for himself? " 

" dear, no. We must have middle-men of one kind 
or another in this country. Loney is commissioned to 
purchase, and is allowed so much on the transaction." 

By this time a young handsome fellow pushed his horse 
through the crowd and approached us. " Good morning," 
cried he to Penruddock. " Any business doing ? " 

" I have just sold my sheep." 

« Good price ? " 

" Fair. Fourteen-and-six." 

" Ah, not so bad. These cattle, I suppose, are yours ? 
We must try if we can't come to a bargain about them." 
Dismounting, he gave his horse in keeping to a lad, and 
he and John went off to inspect the stock. 

Business was proceeding briskly on all sides. There 
was great higgling as to prices, and shillings and half- 
crowns were tossed in a wonderful manner from palm to 



324 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

palm. Apparently, nothing could be transacted without 
that ceremony, whatever it might mean. Idlers were 
everywhere celebrating the merits and " dacency " of the 
various buyers and sellers. Huge greasy leather pocket- 
books, of undoubted antiquity, were to be seen in many a 
band, and rolls of bank-notes were deftly changing own- 
ers. The ground, too, was beginning to clear, and pur- 
chasers were driving off their cattle. Many of the 
dealers who had disposed of stock were taking their 
ease in the inns. You could see them looking out 
of the open windows ; and occasionally a man whose 
potations had been early and excessive went whooping 
through the crowd. In a short time John returned with 
his friend. 

" Captain Broster," said John, presenting him, " has 
promised to dine with us at three. Sharp at the hour, 
mind, for we wish to leave early." 

" I '11 be punctual as clockwork," said the captain, 
turning to look after his purchases. 

We strolled up and down till three o'clock, and then 
bent our steps to the inn, where we found Broster wait- 
ing. In honor to his guests the landlord himself brought 
in dinner, and waited with great diligence. When the 
table was cleared we had punch and cigars, and sat chat- 
ting at the open window. The space in front was tolera- 
bly clear of cattle now, but dealers were hovering about 
standing in clumps, or promenading in parties of twos 
and threes. But at this point a new element had entered 
into the scene. It was dinner hour, and many of the 
forgemen from the furnaces above had come down to see 
what was going on. Huge, hulking, swarthy-featured 
fellows they were. Welshmen, chiefly, as I was after- 
wards told, who, confident in their strength, were at no 



THE WELSH FORGEMEN. 325 

pains to conceal their contempt for the natives. They, 
too, mingled in the crowd, but the greater number leaned 
lazily against the houses, smoking their short pipes, and 
indulging in the dangerous luxury of " chaffing" the farm- 
ers. Many a rude wit-combat was going on, accompanied 
by roars of laughter, snatches of which we occasionally 
heard. Broster had been in the Crimea, was wounded 
at Alma, recovered, went through all the work and pri- 
vation of the first winter of the siege, got knocked up, 
came home on sick leave, and having had enough of it, 
as he frankly confessed, took the opportunity on his 
father's death, which happened then, to sell out and settle 
as a farmer on a small property to which he fell heir. 
He chatted about the events of the war in an easy 
familiar way, quietly, as if the whole affair had been a 
game at football ; and when courage, strength, and splen- 
did prospects were changed by unseen bullet, or grim 
bayonet stab, into a rude grave on the bleak plateau, 
the thing was mentioned as a mere matter of course! 
Sometimes a comrade's fate met with an expression of 
soldierly regret, slight and indifferent enough, yet with a 
certain pathos which no high-flown oration could reach. 
For the indifferent tone seemed to acquiesce in destiny, 
to consider that disappointment had been too common in 
the life of every man during the last six thousand years 
to warrant any raving or passionate surprise at this 
time of day; that in any case our ordinary pulse and 
breath beat our march to the grave ; passion the double- 
quick ; and when it is all over there is little need for out- 
cry and the shedding of tears over the eternal rest. In 
the midst of his talk voices rose in one of the apartments 
below ; the noise became altercation, and immediately a 
kind of struggling or dragging was heard in the flagged 



326 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

passage, and then a tipsy forgeman was unceremoniously 
shot out into the square, and the inn door closed with an 
angry bang. The individual seemed to take the indignity 
in very good part ; along he staggered, his hands in his 
pockets, heedless of the satirical gibes and remarks of his 
companions, who were smoking beneath our windows. 
Looking out, we could see that his eyes were closed, as 
if he scorned the outer world, possessing one so much 
more satisfactory within himself. As he went he began 
to sing from sheer excess of happiness, the following 
stanza coming distinctly to our ears : — 

" When I was a chicken as big as a hen. 
My mother 'ot me, an' I 'ot her agen; 
My father came in for to see the r-r-rrow, 
So I lifted my fist, an' I 'ot him a clow." 

" I hope that fellow won't come to grief," said Broster, 
as the forgeman lurched through a group of countrymen 
intent on a bargain, and passed on without notice or 
apology, his eyes closed, and singing as before — 

" Ses my mother, ses she, There 's a Peeler at hand." 

" By Jove, he 's down at last, and there '11 be the devil 
to pay ! " We looked out, the forgeman was prone in 
the dust, singing, and apparently unconscious that he 
had changed his position. A party of farmers were 
standing around laughing ; one of them had put out his 
foot and tripped the forgeman as he passed. The next 
moment a bare-armed black-browed hammersmith strode 
out from the wall, and, without so much as taking the 
pipe from his mouth, felled the dealer at a blow, and 
then looked at his companions as if wishing to be in- 
formed if he could do anything in the same way for them. 
The blow was a match dropped in a powder-magazine. 



THE FAIR FIGHT. 327 

Alelu! to the combat. There were shouts and yells. 
Insult had been rankhng long in the breasts of both 
parties. Old scores had to be paid off. From every 
quarter, out of the inns, leaving potheen and ale, down 
the streets from among the cattle, the dealers came rush- 
ing to the fray. The forgemen mustered with alacrity, 
as if battle were the breath of their nostrils. In a few 
seconds the square was the scene of a general melee. 
The dealers fought with their short heavy sticks; the 
forgemen had but the weapons nature gave, but their 
arms were sinewed with iron, and every blow told like a 
hammer. These last were overpowered for a while, but 
the alarm had already spread to the furnaces above, and 
parties of twos and threes came at a run, and flung them- 
selves in to the assistance of their companions. Just at 
this moment a couple of constables pressed forward into 
the yelling crowd. A hammersmith came behind one, 
and seizing his arms, held him, despite his struggles, 
firmly as a vice. The other was knocked over and 
trampled under foot. " Good heavens, murder will be 
done," cried Broster, lifting his heavy whip from the 
table ; " we must try and put an end to this disgraceful 
scene. Will you join me ? " " With heart and soul," said 
Penruddock, "and there is no time to be lost. Come 
along." At the foot of the stair we found the landlord 
shaking in every Hmb. He had locked the door, and was 
standing in the passage with the key in his hand. 
"M'Queen, we want to go out; open the door." 

" Shure, jintlemen, you 're not goin' just now. You '11 
be torn to paces if you go." 

" If you won't open the door, give me the key, tmd I '11 
open it myself." 

The landlord passively yielded. Broster unlocked the 



32^ A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

door, and flung the key down on the flagged passage. 
" Now, my lads," cried he to half a dozen countrymen 
who were hanging-on spectators on the skirts of the com- 
bat, and at the same time twisting his whiplash tightly 
round his right hand till the heavy-leaded head became 
a formidable weapon, a blow from which would be effec- 
tive on any skull of ordinary susceptibility, — "now, my 
lads, we are resolved to put an end to this ; will you assist 
us?" The captain's family had been long resident in 
the county, he was himself personally known to all of 
them, and a cheerful " Ay, ay," was the response. " Pen- 
ruddock, separate them when you can, knock them over 
when you can't, Welshman or Irishman, it 's quite the 
same." So saying, in we drove. Broster clove a way 
for himself, distributing his blows with great impartiality, 
and knocking over the combatants like nine-pins. We 
soon reached the middle of the square, where the fight 
was hottest. The captain was swept away in an eddy for a 
moment, and right in front of Penruddock and myself two 
men were grappling on the ground. As they rolled over, 
we saw that one was the hammersmith who had caused 
the whole affray. We flung ourselves upon them, and 
dragged them up. The dealer, with whom I was more 
particularly engaged, had got the worst of it, and plainly 
was n't sorry to be released from the clutches of his an- 
tagonist. With his foe it was different. His slow sullen 
blood was fairly in a blaze, and when Pen pushed him 
aside, he dashed at him and struck him a severe blow on 
the face. In a twinkling Penruddock's coat was off, 
while the faintest stream of blood trickled from his 
upper lip. "Well, my man," said he, as he stood up 
ready for action, " if that 's the game you mean to play 
at, I hope to give you a bellyful before I 've done." 



THE FIGHT. 329 

" Seize that man, knock him over," said Broster ; " you 're 
surely not going to fight Am, Penruddock, it's sheer 
madness ; knock him over." " I tell you what it is," 
said Penruddock, turning savagely, " you shan't deprive 
me of the luxury of giving this fellow a sound hiding." 
Broster shrugged his shoulders, as if giving up the case. 
By this time the cry arose, " Black Jem 's goin' to fight 
the gentleman " ; and a wide enough ring was formed. 
Many who were prosecuting small combats of their own 
desisted, that they might behold the greater one. Bros- 
ter stood beside John. " He 's an ugly mass of strength," 
whispered he, " and will hug you like a bear ; keep him 
well off, and remain cool for Heaven's sake." " Ready ? " 
said John, stepping forward. " As a lark i' the mornin'," 
growled Jem, as he took up his ground. The men were 
very wary, — Jem retreating round and round, John 
advancing. Now and then one or other darted out a 
blow, but it was generally stopped, and no harm done. 
At last the blows went home ; the blood began to rise. 
The men drew closer, and struck with greater rapidity. 
They are at it at last, hammer and tongs. No shirking 
or flinching now. Jem's blood was flowing. He was 
evidently getting severely punished. He could n't last 
long at that rate. He fought desperately for a close, 
when a blinding blow full in the face brought him to the 
earth. He got up again like a madman, the whole bull- 
dog nature of him possessed and mastered by brutal rage. 
He cursed and struggled in the arms of his supporters to 
get at his enemy, but by main force they held him back 
till he recovered himself. " He '11 be worked off in an- 
other round," I heard Broster whisper in my ear. Ah ! 
here they come ! I glanced at Pen for a moment as he 
stood with his eye on his foe. There was that in his 



330 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

face that boded no good. The features had hardened 
into iron somehow ; the pitiless mouth was clenched, the 
eye cruel. A hitherto unknown part of his nature 
revealed itself to me as he stood there, — perhaps un- 
known to himself God help us, what strangers we are 
to ourselves ! In every man's nature there is an interior 
unexplored as that of Africa, and over that region what 
wild beasts may roam ! But they are at it again ; Jem 
still fights for a close, and every time his rush is stopped 
by a damaging blow. They are telling rapidly; his 
countenance, by no means charming at the best, is rapidly 
transforming. Look at that hideously gashed lip ! But 
he has dodged Penruddock's left this time, and clutched 
him in his brawny arms. Now comes the tug of war, 
skill pitted against skill, strength against strength. They 
breathe for a little in each other's grip, as if summoning 
every energy. They are at it now, broad chest to chest. 
Now they seem motionless, but by the quiver of their 
frames you can guess the terrific strain going on. Now 
one has the better, now the other, as they twine round 
each other, lithe and supple as serpents. Penruddock 
yields ! No ! That 's a bad dodge of Jem's. By Jove 
he loses his grip. All is over with him. Pen's brow 
grows dark; the veins start out on it; and the next mo- 
ment Black Jem, the hero of fifty fights, slung over his 
shoulder, falls heavily to the ground. 

At his fall a cheer rose from the dealers. " You black- 
smith fellows had better make off," cried Broster; 
" your man has got the thrashing he deserves, and you 
can carry him home with you. I am resolved to put a 
stop to these disturbances, — there have been too many 
of late." The furnace-men hung for a moment irresolute, 
seemingly half inclined to renew the combat, but a for- 



JOHN PENRUDDOCK. 331 

midable array of cattle-dealers pressed forward and 
turned the scale. They decided on a retreat. Black 
Jem, who had now come to himself, was lifted up, and, 
supported by two men, retired toward the works and 
dwellings on the upper grounds, accompanied by his com- 
panions, who muttered many a surly oath and vow of 
future vengeance. 

When we got back to the inn. Pen was very anxious 
about his face. He washed, and carefully perused his 
features in the little looking-glass. Luckily, with the 
exception of the upper lip slightly cut by Jim's first 
blow, no mark of the combat presented itself At this 
happy result of his investigations he expressed great 
satisfaction, — Broster laughing the meanwhile, and tell- 
ing him that he was as careful of his face as a young 
lady. 

The captain came down to see us off. The fair was 
over now, and the little streets were almost deserted. 
The dealers — apprehensive of another descent from the 
furnaces — had hurried off as soon as their transactions 
could in any way permit. Groups of villagers, however, 
were standing about the doors discussing the event of 
the day; and when Penruddock appeared he became, 
for a quarter of an hour, an object of public interest 
for the first time in his life, and so flir as he has yet 
lived for the last; an honor to which he did not seem 
to attach any particular value. 

We shook hands with the captain ; then, at a touch of 
tlie whip, the horse started at a gallant pace, scattering 
a brood of ducks in all directions ; and in a few minutes 
Keady — with its whitewashed houses and dark row of 
furnaces, tipped with tongues of flame, pale and shrunken 
yet in the lustre of the afternoon, but which would rush 



332 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

out wild and lurid when the evening fell — lay a rapidly- 
dwindling speck behind. 

I am induced to set down this business of the Irish 
market and market fight in order that the reader may- 
gather some idea of the kind of man Penruddock was. 
He was not particularly witty, although on occasion he 
could say a good and neat thing enough ; on no subject 
was he profoundly read ; I don't think that he ever at- 
tempted to turn a stanza, even when a boy and in love ; 
he did not care for art ; he was only conscious of a blind 
and obscure delight in music, and even for that the music 
had to be of the simplest kind, — melody, not harmony. 
He had his limitations, you see : but as a man I have 
seldom met his equal. He was sagacious, kindly, affec- 
tionate, docile, patient, and unthinking of self. There 
was a peculiar deference in his ordinary manner, as if 
he were continually in the presence of a lady. Above 
all things, he was sincere, and you trusted Pen when 
you came to know him as implicitly as you would a law 
of nature. If you were out in a small boat in a storm 
with him ; if you were ascending or descending a steep 
rocky hill-face with him, and got giddy on his hands; 
if you were in the heart of a snow-storm on the hills 
with him, when all traces of the road were lost, and the 
cold began to make thick your blood with the deadly 
pleasure of sleep, — in such circumstances you found out 
what he was : cool, courageous, helpful ; full of resource, 
with a quick brain, an iron nerve, a giant's strength. To 
the possessor of such solid worth and manhood your 
merely brilliant talker, your epigrammatist, your sayer 
of smart things, is essentially a poor creature. What 
is wit ? — a sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal. What 
is epigram ? Penruddock did not paint pictures or write 



JOHN PENRUDDOCK. 333 

poems ; it was his business " to make good sheep," as the 
Skye people saj, and magnificent sheep he did make. 

Pen had an ideal sheep in his mind, and to reach that 
ideal he was continually striving. At the yearly win- 
nowings of his stock he selected his breeding ewes with 
the utmost care, and these ewes, without spot or blemish, 
he crossed with wonderfully-horned and far-brought rams, 
for which he sometimes paid enormous prices, — so at 
least his neighbors said. His sheep he bred in Skye 
for the most part, and then he sent them over to Ulster 
to fatten. There, on pasture and turnips, they throve 
amazingly, all their good points coming into prominence, 
all their bad points stealing modestly into the shade. 
At markets, Penruddock's sheep always brought excel- 
lent prices, and his lot was certain to be about the best 
shown. 

Pen and the Landlord had business relations. In 
partnership, they brought over meal from Ireland, they 
speculated in turnips, they dealt in curious manures, 
which were to the sour Skye soil what plum-pudding 
is to a charity boy : above all, he was confederate in a 
scheme of emigration which the Landlord had concocted, 
and was in the course of carrying out. Pen's visit at 
this time was purely a business one : he wished to see 
me, but that was far from his sole motive in coming, — 
so he frankly said. But I did not care for that ; I was 
quite able to bear the truth, and was glad to have him 
on any conditions. 



334 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 



A SMOKING PARLIAMENT. 

ONE morning after our return, when breakfast was 
over, the Landlord, followed by Maida, carried the 
parrot into the sunshine in front of the house, and, sitting 
down on one of the iron seats, Hghted a cheroot. As 
there was nothing on the cards on that special morning, 
we all followed him, and, lifting his cheroot-case, helped 
ourselves. The morning was warm and pleasant, and as 
no one had anything particular to say, we smoked in 
silence and were happy. The only one who was occu- 
pied was FeUowes. A newspaper had reached him by 
post the evening before, and with its pages he was now 
busy. Suddenly he burst out laughing, and read out 
from a half-column of facetice how an Irishman was 
anxious to discover the opposite side of the street, and 
making inquiries at the passengers, was kept knocking 
about from one side of the thoroughfare to the other, 
like a ball in a racket-court. Pat was told that the 
opposite side of the street was " over there " ; and when 
he got "over there," to his sore bewilderment he dis- 
covered that the opposite side of the street, as if on pur- 
pose to torment him, had slipped anchor and flitted away 
to the side on which he had been making inqumes a few 
moments previously. We all laughed at Pat's intel- 
lectual perplexity ; and shutting up the paper Fellowes 
maintained, in the light cynical vein so common at pres- 
ent, that the hunt after the opposite side of the street 
was no bad image of the hunt after truth. "Truth is 



HIGHLAND WIT. 335 

always * over there,' " he said ; " and when you get ' over 
there/ running extreme peril from cab and dray in cross- 
ing, you find that it has gone back to the place from 
which you started. And so a man spends his life in 
chasing, and is as far on at the end of it as he was at 
the beginning. No man ever yet reached truth, or the 
opposite side of the street." 

" What creatures those Irish are, to be sure ! " said 
the Landlord, as he knocked a feather of white ash from 
the tip of his cheroot ; " it would be a dull world without 
them. In India, a single Irishman at a station is enough 
to banish blue devils. The presence of an Irishman 
anywhere keeps away low spirits, just as a cat in a house 
keeps away rats and mice. Every station should wear 
an Irishman, as an amulet against despondency." 

"I have lived a good deal both in Ireland and the 
Highlands," said Pen, "and the intellectual differences 
between the two races have often struck me as not a little 
curious. They are of the same stock originally, antiqua- 
rians say ; and yet Ireland is a land of Goshen, over- 
flowing with the milk and honey of humor, whereas in 
every quality of humor the Highlands are as dry as the 
Sahara. Jokes don't usually come farther north than 
the Grampians. One or two are occasionally to be found 
in Ross-shire over there ; but they are far from common, 
and their appearance is chronicled in the local prints just 
as the appearance of the capercailzie is chronicled. No 
joke has yet been found strong-winged enough to cross 
the Kyles. That 's odd, is it not ? " 

" But have not the Highlanders wit ? " 

" O yes, plenty of it, but rather of the strenuous than 
of the playful kind ; their wit is born for the most part 
of anger or contempt. 'There she goes,' sneered the 



S3 6 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

EDglishman, as Duncan marched past in his tartans at 
a fair. * There she lies/ retorted Duncan, as he knocked 
the scorner over at a blow. ' Coming from Hell, Laucli- 
lan,' quoth the shepherd, proceeding on a sacrament Sun- 
day to the Free Church, and meetuig his friend coming 
from the Church of the Establishment. * Better than 
going to it, Rory,' retorted Lauchlan, as he passed on. 
Of that kind of rapid and sufficient retort, of the power 
of returning a blow swiftly and with interest, the High- 
lander is not in the least deficient. But he differs from 
the Irishman in this, — that he has no eye for the pleas- 
antly-droll side of things ; he has no fun in him, — no 
sense of the genially comic. He laughs, but there is 
generally a touch of scorn in his laughter, and it is 
almost always directed against a man or a thing. The 
Irishman's humorous sense puts a stitch in the torn coat, 
ekes the scanty purse, boils the peas with which he is 
doomed to limp graveward. The bested Highlander can 
draw no amelioration of condition from such a source. 
The two races dine often scantily enough, but it is only 
the Irishman that can sweeten his potatoes with point. 
* They talk of hardships,' said the poor Irish soldier as 
he lay down to sleep on the deck of the transport, — 
*they talk of hardships; but bedad this is the hardest 
ship I ever was in in my life.' No Highlander would 
have said that. And I believe that the joke made the 
hard plank all the softer to the joker." 

" And how do you account for this difference ? " 
** I can't account for it. The two races springing from 
the same stock, I rather think it is wwaccountable ; un- 
less, indeed, it be traceable to climatic influence, — the 
soft, green, rainy Erin producing riant and ebullient na- 
tures ; the bare, flinty Highlands hard and austere ones. 



PRIDE OF THE HIGHLANDER. 337 

There is one quality, however, in which your Highlander 
can beat the world, with the exception, perhaps, of the 
North American Indian." 

"Whatquality is that?" 

" The quality of never exhibiting astonishment. The 
Highlander would as soon think of turning his back on 
his foe as of expressing astonishment at anything. Take 
a Highland lad from the wilds of Skye or Harris and 
drop him in Cheapside, and he will retain the most per- 
fect equanimity. He will have no word of marvel for 
the crowds and the vehicles ; the Thames Tunnel will 
not move him ; he will look on St. Paul's without flinch- 
ing. The boy may have only ridden in a peat-cart ; but 
he takes a railway — the fields, hedges, bridges, and vil- 
lages spinning past, the howling gloom of the tunnels, 
the speed that carries him in an hour over a greater 
extent of country than he ever beheld in his life even 
from his highest hill-top — as the merest matter of 
course, and unworthy of special remark." 

" But the boy will be astonished all the same ? " 

" Of course he is. The very hair of his soul is stand- 
ing on end with wonder and terror, but he will make no 
sign ; he is too proud. Will he allow the Sassenach to 
triumph over him? If he did, he would not be his 
father's son. He will not admit that earth holds any- 
thing which he has not measured and weighed, and with 
which he is not perfectly familiar. When Chingachgook 
groans at the stake in the hearing of his tormentors, the 
Highlander will express surprise." 

" This disinclination to express astonishment, if it does 

exist to the extent you say amongst tlie Highlanders, 

must arise from a solitary mode of living. People up 

in these Western Islands live on the outskirts of exist- 

15 y 



338 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

ence, so to speak; and the knowledge that a big, bus- 
tling, important world exists beyond their horizon ' in- 
tensifies their individualism,' as the poet said the bracing 
air of old St. Andrews intensified his. They are driven 
in on themselves; they are always standing in an atti- 
tude of mental self-defence ; they become naturally self- 
contained and self-sustained." 

" To some extent what you say is true ; but the main 
reason of the Highlander's calmness and self-command in 
the presence of new and wonderful objects is pride. To 
express astonishment at the sight of an object implies 
previous ignorance of that object; and no Highlander 
worthy of the name will admit that he is ignorant of 
anything under the sun. To come back, however, to 
what we were speaking about a little while ago, — the 
differences between the Highlanders and the Irish, — 
the light-hearted Irishman delights to ' chaff' and to be 
* chaffed ' ; the intenser and more serious-hearted High- 
lander can neither do the one nor endure the other. 
The bit of badinage which an Irishman will laugh at and 
brush carelessly aside, stings the Highlander like a 
gadfly. When the Highlander is fencing, the button 
is always coming off his foil, and the point is in your 
arm before you know where you are. If you enter into 
a gay wit-combat with a Highlander, it is almost certain 
to have a serious ending, — just as the old Highland 
wedding-feasts, beginning with pledged healths and uni- 
versal three-times-three, ended in a brawl and half a 
dozen men dirked." 

" Chaff, in common with shoddy, the adulteration of 
food, and the tailor-sweating system, is the product of an 
over-ripe civilization. It is the glimmer on the head of 
the dead cod-fish, — putridity become phosphorescent. 



DISTRUST OF NATURE. 339 

It can only thrive in large cities. It is the offspring of 
impudence and loquacity. I am not astonished that the 
Highlander cannot endure it; it is out of his way alto- 
gether. He no more can use it as a weapon of offence or 
defence than David could wear the armor of Saul. CliafF 
grows in the crowded street, not in the wilderness. It is 
the one thing we have brought into perfection in these 
later days. It is a weed that grows lustily, because 
it is manured with our vices and our decomposed faiths. 
I don't think the worse of the Highlander because he 
cannot chaff or endure being chaffed. A London cab- 
man would slang Socrates into silence in a quarter of 
an hour." 

" I suppose," said the Landlord, " w^hen the Skye rail- 
way is finished we poor Highlanders will get our jokes 
from the South, as we get our tea and sugar. It 's a pity 
the Board of Directors did not mention that special im- 
port in their prospectus. The shares might have gone 
off more rapidly, Pen ! " 

'* By the by," said Fellowes, turning to me, " you were 
speaking the other day of the curious distrust of Nature, 
which you consider the soul of all Celtic poetry and 
Celtic superstition, and you were inclined to attribute 
that distrust and fear to the austerities of climate and 
physical conformation, to the rain-cloud, and the preci- 
pice, the sea-foam, and the rock. I agree with you so 
far; but I think you lay too much stress on climatic 
influences and the haggardness of landscape. That quick 
sense of two powers — of Nature and Humanity, of man 
and a world outside of man — is the root of all poetry." 

" Of course it is. To the Celt, Nature is malign, evil- 
disposed, cruel ; and his poetry is dreary as the strain of 
the night-wind. To a Wordsworth, on the other hand. 



340 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

Nature is merciful and tranquil, deep-thoughted and 
calm ; and as a consequence his poetry is temperate and 
humane, cool as a summer evening after the sun has set, 
and — with all reverence be it spoken — sometimes tire- 
somely hortatory." 

" Preaching is generally dull work, I fear ; and Na- 
ture's sermons, even when reported by Wordsworth, 
are as dull as some other sermons which I have heard 
and read." 

"But what I was going to say was, that the sense of 
malevolence in Nature which you claim as the central 
fact of Celtic song and superstition, is not so much the 
result of harsh climates and wild environments as it is 
a stage in the mental progress of a race. At one stage 
of progress, all races fear Nature alike. The South- 
Sea Islander, whose bread-fruit falls into his mouth, fears 
Nature just as much as the Greenlander, who hunts the 
white bear on the iceberg and spears the walrus in the 
foam. When once man has got the upper hand of Na- 
ture, when he has made her his slave, when her winds 
sit in his sails and propel his ships, when she yields him 
iron whereby she is more firmly bound to his service, 
when she gives him coal wherewith to cook food and 
to mitigate the rigors of her winters, — when man has 
got that length, the aboriginal fear dies out of his heart, 
the weird Celtic bard goes, and Wordsworth comes. 
Even in the Lowlands, scraps of verses still exist, — 
relics of long past time, and shuddering yet with an 
obsolete terror, — which are as full of a sense of the 
malevolence of Nature as any Highland song or tune 
you could produce." 

" Let me hear one or two." 

" Well, here is one which has been occasionally quoted, 



"THE DOWIE DEAN." 341 

and which you have in all likelihood come across in 
your reading: — 

' Says Tweed to Till, 
What gars ye rin sae still? 
Says Till to Tweed, 
Though ye rin wi' speed, 
An' I rin slaw. 
For ae man that ye droon, 
I droon twa.' " 

" Yes, it is very striking, and hits the nail on the head 
exactly. Sir Walter quotes it somewhere, I think. I 
have little doubt that these rhymes suggested to Scott 
his Voices of the River in the ' Lay,' which is not that 
of the kelpie, a creature i?i the river, but of the river 
itself, in spiritual personation." 

" That may be, or it may not. But nowhere, that I 
know of, does that sense of an evil will, and an aliena- 
tion from man in nature, find a profounder and more 
tragic, if withal a playful, half-humorous expression, than 
in this curious little Border fragment, unless, indeed, it 
be beaten by this from Forfarshire. Of the Dean stream, 
wherein, while it was yet golden time with me, I slew 
many a fine trout, there existed then a local rhyme of 
much less artistic and literary completion than that re- 
lating the colloquy between Till and Tweed, but, as I 
think, in its rudeness if anything even more grewsome 
and grim, — 

' The dowie Dean, 
It rins it lean. 
An' every seven year it gets ean.' " 

" What a hideous patois" quoth the Landlord, " your 
Forfarshire people must talk ! I can't say I understand 
a word of your rhymes. Perhaps you will be good 
enough to translate." 



842 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

Fellowes laughed. " I '11 do my best, — 

' The dowie (quietly dismal) Dean, 
It rins it lean, (its lane, lone, solitary,) 
An' every seven year it gets ean, (ane, one.) ' 

There it is now, in Scotch and English, for you. "What 
specially strikes me in this rhyme is its quiet power of 
awe, its reflex of the passionless calm, which, in scorn 
of contrast with the ' fever and fret' and flux of human 
feeling, is the specially frightful thing in Nature. No 
need for the Dean to trouble itself to employ kelpies: 
it runs quietly, gloomily on, feeding its fine red trout, 
and sure that by the serene law of the case when the 
hour comes the man will, and will drop to his moist 
doom, with no trouble given. 'It gets ean' when the 
said ' ean ' is due ; and never having been disappointed, 
it runs on 'dowie,' and not disturbing itself, as certain 
of its food in season. This it plainly reckons on, some- 
what as year after year we look for strawberries and 
new potatoes. Then, the ' It rins it lean,^ by itself, soli- 
tary, sullen, morose, as it were, and in the deeps of its 
moody pools, meditating periodical unsocial mischiefs, 
past and to come. For haggard, imaginative sugges- 
tion, unless it be in the 'Twa Corbies,' I don't know 
where we can quite equal this. Beside this primal poetry 
of man's spiritual instinct of terror our later verse-devel- 
opments are the merest nothings." 

While I kept repeating over to myself the rude triplet 
wliich was new to me, and creeping as best I could into 
its fell significance. Pen said, — 

" And I suppose, in point of fact, that your gloomy 
hermit and murderer of a stream did get ' ean ' every 
seven years. Don't you think only ' ean ' in seven years 
a somewhat scant allowance ? Most streams are as well 
supplied, I rather think." 



"THE DOWIE DEAN." 343 

» "This septennial victim was in my boyhood consid- 
ered by the natives as the toll exacted by, and fated due 
of the river ; and I have heard the old people reckon 
back, over 'Jock Tamson that was drowned i' the year 

, coming hame fou frae the fair ' ; ' ^7ull Smith,' fou 

of course, also, who, fresh from ' the spring roup of grass 

parks at the Hatton in the year / was unexpectedly 

treated to more water than he needed for his i)urposes of 
grog; and so on. The old inhabitant would then con- 
clude with a grave, — ' It 's weel kent the burn 's nae 
canny ' ; and a confident prediction, with half a shudder 
in his voice, that ' ye '11 see it winna be lang noo till it 
maun get anither.' Any sceptic was at once silenced 
with, — ' Weel-a-weel — say yer say o 't the noo, and jist 
bide till ye see. But dinna ye be daunerin' doon 't yer- 
sel', neist nicht ye 're fou, or maybe, my braw man, ye 'U 
no see. I 'm no saying but ye '11 mak' a bonny corp, gifF 
ye downa swall wi' the burn-water, yer stamack nae bein* 
used to 't.' " 

" Your theory is correct," said the Landlord, turnhig 
to Fellowes, "that the fear of Nature is common to 
all races, and that as each race advances in civilization 
the terror dies out. The kelpie, for instance, always lives 
near a ford, — bridge the stream, and the kelpie dies. 
Build a road across a haunted hill, and you banish the 
fairies of the hill forever. The kelpie and the fairy are 
simply spiritual personations of very rude and common 
dangers, — of being carried away by the current when 
you are attempting to cross a river, — of being lost when 
you are taking a short cut across hills on which there is 
no track. Abohsh the dangers, and you at the same 
time abolish those creatures, Fear and Fancy." 

" Rhymes like these are the truest antiques, the most 



344 A SUMMER m SKYE. 

precious articles of virtu. What is the broocli or ring 
that the fair woman wore, the brogues in which the shep- 
herd travelled, the sword or shield with which the war- 
rior fought, compared with a triplet like that, which is 
really an authentic bit of the terror that agitated human 
hearts long ago ? " 

But while we were discussing the Dean flowing on 
solitarily, eyery gurgle silenced with expectation as the 
hour drew near when its seven years' hunger would be 
appeased, Pen and the Landlord had drifted away to the 
subject of the Skye railway, — this summer and the last 
a favorite subject of discussion in the Island. 

" You are a great friend of the railway ? " 

" Of course I am," said the Landlord. " I consider the 
locomotive the good wizard of our modern day. Its 
whistle scares away filth, mendicancy, and unthrift; 
ignorance and laziness perish in the glare of its red eyes. 
I have seen what it has done for the Hindoo, and I know 
what it will do for the Islesman. We hold India by our 
railways to-day rather than by our laws or our armies. 
The swart face of the stoker is the first sign of the golden 
age that has become visible in my time." 

" What benefits do you expect the railway will bring 
witb it to Skye ? " 

" It will bring us in closer contact with the South. By 
the aid of the railway we shall be enabled to send our 
stock to the southern markets more rapidly, more cheaply, 
and in better condition, and as a consequence we will 
obtain better prices. By aid of the railway the Islands 
will be opened up, our mineral treasures will be laid 
bare, our marbles will find a market, the Skye apple and 
the Skye strawberry will be known in Covent Garden, 
our fisheries will flourish as they have never flourished 



THE EMIGRANTS. 345 

before. The railway will bring southern capital to us, 
and humane southern influences. The railway will send 
an electric shock through the entire Island. Everybody's 
pulse will be quickened ; the turf-hut will disappear ; and 
the Skyeman will no longer be considered a lazy crea- 
ture ; which he is not, — he only seems so because he 
has never found a proper field for the display of liis 
activities. There are ten chances to one that your Skye 
lad, if left in Skye, will remain a fisherman or a shep- 
herd ; but transplant him to Glasgow, Liverpool, or Lon- 
don, and he not uufrequently blossoms into a merchant 
prince. There were quick and nimble brains under the 
shock heads of the lads you saw at my school the other 
day, and to each of these lads the railway will open a 
career great or small, or, at all events, the chance of 
one." " 

When the Landlord had ceased speaking, a boy 
brought the post-bag and laid it down on the gravel. 
It was opened, and we got our letters, — the Landlord 
a number of Indian ones. These he put into his coat 
pocket. One he tore open and read. " Hillo, Pen ! " he 
cried, when he got to the end, " my emigrants are to be 
at Skeabost on Thursday ; we must go over to see them." 
Then he marched into the house, and in a little time 
thereafter our smoking parliament dissolved. 



15* 



346 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 



THE EMIGRANTS, 

THE English emigrant is prosaic; Highland and 
Irish emigrants are poetical. How is this ? The 
wild-rose lanes of England, one would think, are as bitter 
to part from, and as worthy to be remembered at the 
antipodes, as the wild coasts of Skye or the green hills 
of Ireland. Oddly enough, poet and painter turn a cold 
shoulder on the English emigrant, while they expend 
infinite pathos on the emigrants from Erin or the High- 
lands. The Highlander has his Lochaber-no-more, and 
the Irishman has the Countess of Gilford's pretty song. 
The ship in the offing, and the parting of Highland emi- 
grants on the sea-shore, has been made the subject of in- 
numerable paintings ; and yet there is a sufficient reason 
for it all. Young man and maid are continually parting ; 
but unless the young man and maid are lovers, the fare- 
well-taking has no attraction for the singer or the artist. 
"Without the laceration of love, without some tumult of 
sorrowful emotion, a parting is the most prosaic thing in 
the world; with these it is perhaps the most affecting. 
" Good by " serves for the one ; the most sorrowful words 
of the poet are hardly sufficient for the other. Eightly 
or wrongly, it is popularly understood that the Enghsh 
emigrant is not mightily moved by regret when he be- 
holds the shores that gave him birth withdrawing them- 
selves into the dimness of the far horizon, — although, if 
true, why it should be so ? and if false, how it has crept 
into the common belief? are questions not easy to answer. 



EMIGRATION. 347 

If the Englishman is obtuse and indifferent in this re- 
spect, the Highlander is not. He has a cat-like love for 
locality. He finds it as difficult to part from the faces of 
the familiar hills as from the faces of his neighbors. In 
the land of his adoption he cherishes the language, the 
games, and the songs of his childhood ; and he thinks 
with a continual sadness of the gray-green slopes of 
Lochaber, and the thousand leagues of dim, heart-break- 
ing sea tossing between them and him. 

The Celt clings to his birthplace, as the ivy nestles 
lovingly to its wall ; the Saxon is Hke the arrowy seeds 
of the dandelion, that travel on the wind and strike root 
afar. This simply means that the one race has a larger 
imagination than the other, and an intenser feeling of 
association. Emigration is more painful to the High- 
lander than it is to the Englishman, — this poet and 
painter have instinctively felt, — and in wandering up 
and down Skye you come in contact with this pain, either 
fresh or in reminiscence, not unfrequently. Although 
the member of his family be years removed, the Skye- 
man lives in him imaginatively, — just as the man who 
has endured an operation is forever conscious of the 
removed limb. And this horror of emigration — com- 
mon to the entire Highlands — has been increased by 
the fact that it has not unfrequently been a forceful mat- 
ter, that potent landlords have torn down houses and 
turned out the inhabitants, have authorized evictions, 
have deported the dwellers of entire glens. That the 
landlords so acting have not been without grounds of 
justification may in all probability be true. The deported 
villagers may have been cumberers of the ground, they 
may have been unable to pay rent, they may have been 
slowly but surely sinking into pauperism, their prospect 



348 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

of securing a comfortable subsistence in the colonies may 
be considerable, while in their own glens it may be nil, 
— all this may be true ; but to have your house unroofed 
before your eyes, and made to go on board a ship bound 
for Canada, even although the passage-money be paid for 
you, is not pleasant. An obscure sense of wrong is 
kindled in heart and brain. It is just possible that what 
is for the landlord's interest may be for yours also in the 
long run ; but you feel that the landlord has looked after 
his own interest in the first place. He wished you away, 
and he has got you away ; whether you will succeed in 
Canada is matter of dubiety. The human gorge rises at 
this kind of forceful banishment, — more particularly the 
gorge of the banished ! 

When Thursday came, the Landlord drove us over to 
Skeabost, at which place, at noon, the emigrants were to 
assemble. He told me on the way that some of the more 
sterile portions of his property were over-populated, and 
that the people there could no more prosper than trees 
that have been too closely planted. He was conse- 
quently a great advocate of emigration. He maintained 
that force should never be used, but advice and persua- 
sion only ; that when consent was obtained, there should 
be held out a helping hand. It was his idea that if a 
man went all the way to Canada to oblige you, it was 
but fair that you should make his journey as pleasant as 
possible, and provide him employment, or, at all events, 
put him in the way of obtaining it when he got there. 
In Canada, consequently, he purchased lands, made these 
lands over to a resident relative, and to the charge of 
that relative, who had erected houses, and who had trees 
to fell, and fields to plough, and cattle to look after, he 
consigned his emigrants. He took care that they were 



THE EMGRANTS. 349 

safely placed on shipboard at Glasgow or Liverpool, and 
his relative was in waiting when they arrived. When 
the friendly face died on this side of the Atlantic, a new 
friendly face dawned on them on the other. With only 
one class of tenant was he inclined to be peremptory. 
He had no wish to disturb in their turf-hut the old man 
and woman who had brought up a family ; but when the 
grown-up son brought home a wife to the same hut, he 
was down upon them, like a severing-knife, at once. 
The young people could not remain there ; they might 
go where they pleased, — he would rather they would go 
to Canada than anywhere, — but out of the old dwelling 
they must march. And the young people frequently 
jumped at the Landlord's offer, — labor and good wages 
calling sweetly to them from across the sea. The Land- 
lord had already sent out a troop of emigrants, of whose 
condition and prospects he had the most encouraging 
accounts, both from themselves and others, and the sec- 
ond troop were that day to meet him at Skeabost. 

When we got to Skeabost there were the emigrants, to 
the number perhaps of fifty or sixty, seated on the lawn. 
They were dressed as was their wont on Sundays, when 
prepared for church. The men wore suits of blue or 
gray kelt, the women were wrapped for the most part 
in tartan plaids. They were decent, orderly, intelligent, 
and on the faces of most was a certain resolved look, 
as if they had carefully considered the matter, and had 
made up their minds to go through with it. They were 
of every variety of age, too, — the greater proportion 
young men who had long years of vigorous work in 
them, who would fell many a tree and reap many a field 
before their joints stiffened, — women, fresh, comely, and 
strong, not yet mothers, but who would be grandmothers 



350 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

before their term of activity was past. In the party, too, 
was a sprinkling of middle-aged people, with whom the 
world had gone hardly, and who were hoping that Can- 
ada would prove kinder than Skye. They all rose and 
saluted the Landlord respectfully as we drove down to- 
ward the house. The porch was immediately made a 
hall of audience. The Landlord sat in a chair. Pen 
took his seat at the table, and opened a large scroll-book 
in which the names of the emigrants were inscribed. 
One by one the people came from the lawn to the porch 
and made known their requirements, — a man had not 
yet made up his passage-money, and required an advance ; 
a woman desired a pair of blankets ; an old man wished 
the Landlord to buy his cow, which was about to calve, 
and warranted an excellent milker. With each of these 
the Landlord talked sometimes in Gaelic, more frequently 
in English ; entered into the circumstances of each, and 
commended, rebuked, expostulated, as occasion required. 
When an emigrant had finished his story, and made his 
bargain with the Landlord, Pen wrote the conditions 
thereof against his or her name in the large scroll-book. 
The giving of audience began about noon, and it was 
evening before it was concluded. By that time every 
emigrant had been seen, talked with, and disposed of. 
For each the way to Canada was smoothed, and the 
terms set down by Pen in his scroll-book ; and each, as 
he went away, was instructed to hold himself in readi- 
ness on the fifteenth of the following month, for on that 
day they were to depart. 

When the emigrants were gone we smoked on the 
lawn, with the moon rising behind us. Next morning 
our party broke up. Fellowes and the Landlord went 
off in the mail to Inverness ; the one to resume his 



THE EMIGRANTS. 351 

legal reading there, the other to catch the train for 
London. Pen went to Bracadale, where he had some 
business to transact preparatory to going to Ireland, and I 
drove in to Portree to meet the southward-going steamer, 
for vacation was over, and my Summer in Skye had come 
to an end. 



352 A SUMMER m SKYE. 



HOMEWARDS. 

LIFE is pleasant, but unfortunately one has got to 
die ; vacation is delightful, but unhappily vaca- 
tions come to an end. Mine had come to an end ; and 
sitting in the inn at Portree waiting for the southward- 
going steamer, I began to count up my practical and 
ideal gains, just as in dirty shillings and half-crowns a 
cobbler counts up his of a Saturday night. 

In the first place, I was a gainer in health. When 
I came up here a month or two ago I was tired, jaded, 
ill at ease. I put spots in the sun, I flecked the loveliest 
blue of summer sky with bars of darkness. I felt the 
weight of the weary hours. Each morning called me 
as a slave-driver calls a slave. In sleep there was no 
refreshment, for in dream the weary day repeated itself 
yet more wearily. I was nervous, apprehensive of evil, 
irritable, — ill, in fact. Now I had the appetite of an 
ostrich, I laughed at dyspepsia ; I could have regulated 
my watch by my pulse ; and all the dusty, book-lettered 
and be-cobwebbed chambers of my brain had been tidied 
and put to rights by the fairies Wonder, Admiration, 
Beauty, Freshness. Soul and body were braced alike, 
— into them had gone something of the peace of the 
hills and the strength of the sea. I had work to do, and 
I was able to enjoy work. Here there was one gain, 
very palpable and appreciable. Then by my wander- 
ings up and down, I had made solitude forever less irk- 
some, because I had covered the walls of my mind with 



PRACTICAL AND IDEAL GAINS. 353 

a variety of new pictures. The poorest man may have 
a picture-gallery in liis memory which he would not ex- 
change for the Louvre. In the picture-gallery of my 
memory there hung Blaavin, the Cuchullins, Loch Cor- 
uisk, Dunsciach, Duntulm, Lord Macdonald's deer-forest, 
Glen Sligachan, and many another place and scene be- 
sides. Here was a gain quite as palpable and appre- 
ciable as the other. The pictures hung in the still room 
of memory, and to them I could turn for refreshment 
in dull or tedious hours; and carrying that still room 
with its pictures about with me wherever I went, I could 
enter and amuse myself at any time, — whether waiting 
at a station for a laggard train, or sitting under a dull 
preacher oh a hot Sunday afternoon. Then, again, I 
had been brought in contact with peculiar individuals, 
which is in itself an intellectual stimulus, in so far as 
one is continually urged to enter into, explore, and under- 
stand them. What a new variety of insect is to an ento- 
mologist, that a new variety of man is to one curious 
in men, who delights to brood over them, to comprehend 
them, to distinguish the shades of difference that exist 
between them, and, if possible, sympathetically to he 
them. This sympathy enables a man in his lifetime to 
lead fifty lives. I don't think in the south I shall ever 
find the counterparts of John Kelly, Lachlan Roy, or 
Ann^us-with-the-doss. I am certain I shall never en- 
counter a nobler heart than that which has beat for so 
long a term in the frame of Mr. MTan, nor a wiser or 
humaner brain than the Landlord's. Even to have met 
the tobacco-less man was something on which speculation 
could settle. Then, in the matter of gain, one may 
fairly count up the being brought into contact with songs, 
stories, and superstitions; for through means of these 



854 A SUMITER IN SKYE. 

one obtains access into the awe and terror that lay at 
the heart of that ancient Celtic life which is fast dis- 
appearing now. Old songs illustrate the spiritual moods 
of a people, just as old weapons, agricultural imple- 
ments, furniture, and domestic dishes, illustrate the ma- 
terial conditions. I delighted to range through that 
spiritual antiquarian museum, and to take up and ex- 
amine the bits of human love, and terror, and hate, that 
lay fossilized there. All these things were gains : and 
waiting at Portree for the steamer, and thinking over 
them all, I concluded that my Summer in Skye had not 
been misspent ; and that no summer can be misspent 
anywhere, provided the wanderer brings with him a 
quick eye, an open ear, and a sympathetic spirit. It is 
the cunningest harper that draws the sweetest music 
from the harp-string ; but no musician that ever played 
has exhausted all the capacities of his instrument, — there 
is more to take for him who can take. 

The Clansman reached Portree Bay at eleven p.m., 
and I went on board at once and went to bed. When I 
awoke next morning, the engines were in full action, and 
I could hear the rush of the water past my berth. When 
I got on deck we were steaming down the Sound of 
Raasay ; and when breakfast-time arrived, it needed but 
a glance to discover that autumn had come and that the 
sporting season was wellnigh over. A lot of sheep were 
penned up near the bows, amidships were piles of wool, 
groups of pointers and setters were scattered about, and 
at the breakfast-table were numerous sportsmen return- 
ing to the south, whose conversation ran on grouse-shoot- 
ing, salmon-fishing, and deer-stalking. While breakfast 
was proceeding you saw everywhere sun-browned faces, 
heard cheery voices, and witnessed the staying of pro- 



THE STEAMER. 355 

digious appetites. Before these stalwart fellows steaks, 
chops, platefuls of ham and eggs disappeared as if by 
magic. The breakfast party, too, consisted of all orders 
and degrees of men. There were drovers going to or 
returning from markets ; merchants from Stornoway go- 
ing south ; a couple of Hebridean clergymen, one of 
whom said grace ; several military men of frank and 
hearty bearing ; an extensive brewer ; three members of 
Parliament, who had entirely recovered from the fatigues 
of legislation ; and a tall and handsome English Earl of 
some repute on the turf. Several ladies, too, dropped in 
before the meal was over. We were all hungry, and fed 
like Homer's heroes. The brewer was a valiant trencher- 
man, and the handsome Earl entombed cold pie to an 
extent unprecedented in my experience. The commis- 
sariat on board the Highland steamers is plentiful and of 
quality beyond suspicion ; and the conjunction of good 
viands, and appetites whetted by the sea-breeze, results 
in a play of knife and fork perfectly wonderful to behold. 
When breakfast was over we all went up stairs ; the 
smoking men resorted to the hurricane deck, the two 
clergymen read, the merchants from Stornoway wandered 
uneasily about as if seeking some one to whom they 
could attach themselves, and the drovers smoked short 
pipes amidships, and talked to the passengers there, and 
when their pipes were out w^ent forward to examine the 
sheep. The morning and forenoon wore away pleasantly, 
— the great ceremony of dinner was ahead, and draw- 
ing nearer every moment, — that was something, — and 
then there were frequent stoppages, and the villages 
on the shore, the coming and going of boats with 
cargo and passengers, the throwing out of empty bar- 
rels here, the getting in of wool there, were incidents 



356 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

quite worthy of the regard of idle men leading for the 
time being a mere life of the senses. We stopped for 
a couple of hours in Broadford Bay, — we stopped at 
Kyleakin, — we stopped at Balmacara ; and the long- 
looked-for dinner was served after we had passed Kyle- 
Khea, and were gliding down into Glenelg. For some 
little time previously savory steams had assailed our 
nostrils. We saw the stewards descending into the cabin 
with covered dishes, and at the first sound of the bell the 
hurricane deck, crowded a moment before, was left en- 
tirely empty. The captain took his seat at the head of 
the table with a mighty roast before him, the clergyman 
said grace, — somewhat lengthily, I fear, in the opinion 
of most, — the covers were lifted away by deft waiters, 
and we dined that day at four as if we had not previ- 
ously breakfasted at eight, and lunched at one. Dinner 
was somewhat protracted ; for as we had nothing to do 
after the ladies went, we sat over cheese and wine, and 
then talk grew animated over whiskey-punch. When I 
went on deck again we had passed Knock, and were 
steaming straight for Armadale. The Knoydart hills 
were on the one side, the low shores of Sleat, patched 
here and there by strips of cultivation, on the other ; and 
in a little we saw the larch plantations of Armadale, and 
the castle becoming visible through the trees on the 
lawn. 

In autumn the voyage to the south is lengthened by 
stoppages, and frequently the steamer has to leave her 
direct course and thread long inland-running lochs to 
take wool on board. These stoppages and wanderings 
out of the direct route would be annoying if you were 
hurrying south to be married, or if you were summoned 
to the death-bed of a friend from whom you had expecta- 



LOCH NEVIS. 357 

tions ; but as it is holiday with you, and as every diver- 
gence brings you into unexpected scenery, tliey are 
regarded rather as a pleasure than anything else. At 
Armadale we stayed for perhaps half an hour, and then 
struck directly across the Sound of Sleat, and sailed up 
the windings of Loch Nevis. When we reached the top 
there was an immense to-do on the beach ; some three or 
four boats laden with wool were already pulling out 
towards the steamer, which immediately lay to and let 
off noisy steam ; men were tumbling bales of wool into 
the empty boats that lay at the stony pier, and to the 
pier laden carts were hurrying down from the farm-house 
that stood remote. The wool boats came on either side 
of the steamer ; doors were opened in the bulwarks, to 
these doors steam-cranes were wheeled, and with many a 
shock of crank and rattle of loosened chain, the bales 
were hoisted on deck and consigned to the gloomy re- 
cesses of the hold. As soon as a boat was emptied, a 
laden one pulled out to take its place ; the steam-cranes 
were kept continually jolting and rattling, and in the 
space of a couple of hours a considerable amount of busi- 
ness had been done. On the present occasion the trans- 
ference of wool from the boats to the hold of the steamer 
occupied a longer time than was usual ; sunset had come 
in crimson and died away to pale gold and rose, and still 
the laden boats came slowly on, still storms of Gaelic 
execration surged along the sides of the ship, and still the 
steam-cranes were at their noisy work. The whole 
affair, having by this time lost all sense of novelty, was 
in danger of becoming tiresome, but in the fading light 
the steward had lighted up the saloon into hospitable 
warmth and glow, and then the bell rang for tea. In a 
moment all interest in the wool-boats had come to an 



S58 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

end, the passengers hurried below, and before the tink- 
Imgs of cup and saucer had ceased, the last bale of wool 
had been transferred from the boats alongside to the hold, 
and the Clansman had turned round, and was softly glid- 
ing down Loch Nevis. 

A lovely, transparent autumn night arched above us, 
a young moon and single star by her side, when we 
reached Arisaig. By this time the ladies had retired, 
and those of the gentlemen who remained on deck were 
wrapped in plaids, each shadowy figure brought out more 
keenly by the red tip of a cigar. The entrance into 
Arisaig is difficult, and the Clansman was put on half 
steam. The gentlemen were requested to leave the 
hurricane-deck, and there the captain stationed himself, 
while a couple of men were sent to the bows, and three 
or four stationed at the wheel. Slowly the large vessel 
moved onward, with low black reefs of rocks on either 
side, like smears of dark color, but perfectly soft and 
tender in outline ; and every here and there we could see 
the dark top of a rock peering out of the dim sea like a 
beaver's head. From these shadowy reefs, as the vessel 
moved on, the sea-birds were awaked from their slum- 
bers, and strangely sweet, and liquid as flute-notes, were 
their cries and signals of alarm. Every now and again, 
too, with a sort of weary sigh, a big wave came heaving 
in, and broke over the dark reefs in cataracts of ghostly 
silver ; and in the watery trouble and movement that 
followed, the moon became a well of moving light, and 
the star a quivering sword-blade. The captain stood 
alone on the hurricane deck, the passengers leaned against 
the bulwarks watching rock and sea, and listening to the 
call and re-call of disturbed mews, when suddenly there 
was a muffled shout from the out-look at the bows, the 



ARISAIG. - 359 

captain shouted, "Port! port! hard!'' and away went 
the wheel spinning, the stalwart fellows toiling at the 
spokes, and the ship slowly falling off. After a little 
while there was another noise at the bows, the captain 
shouted, " Starboard ! " and the wheel was rapidly re- 
versed. We were now well up the difficult channel; 
and looking back we could see a perfect intricacy of 
reefs and dim single rocks behind, and a fading belt of 
pallor wandering amongst them, which told the track 
of the ship, — a dreadful place to be driven upon on a 
stormy night, when the whole coast would be like the 
mouth of a wounded boar, — black tusks and churning 
foam. After a while, however, a low line of coast be- 
came visible, then a light broke upon it ; and after a few 
impatient turns of the paddles we beheld a dozen boats 
approaching with lights at their bows. These were the 
Arisaig boats, laden with cargo. At sight of them 
the captain left the hurricane deck, the anchor went away 
with a thundering chain, the passengers went to bed, and, 
between asleep and awake, I could hear half the night 
the trampling of feet, the sound of voices, and the jolt of 
the steam-cranes, as the Arisaig goods were being hoisted 
on deck and stowed away. 

I was up early next morning. The sky was clear, 
the wind blowing on shore, and the bright, living, rejoic^ 
ing sea came seething in on the rocky intricacies through 
which we slowly sailed. Skye was perfectly visible, the 
nearer shores dark and green ; farther back the dim 
Cuchullins, standing in the clouds. Eig rose opposite, 
wdth its curiously-shaped sciur ; Muck lay ahead. The 
Clansman soon reached the open sea, and we began to 
feel the impulse of the Atlantic. By the time the pas- 
sengers began to appear on deck the ship was lurching 



360 'A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

beavily along towards the far-stretching headland of Ard- 
namurchan. It was difficult to keep one's feet steady, — 
more difficult to keep steady one's brain. Great gUtter- 
ing watery mounds came heaving on, to wash with una- 
vailing foam the rocky coast ; and amongst these the 
steamer rolled and tossed and groaned, its long dark 
pennon of smoke streaming with the impulse of the 
sea. The greater proportion of the passengers crawled 
amidships, beside the engines and the cook's quarters, — 
which were redolent with the scent of herrings frying 
for a most unnecessary breakfast, — for there the motion 
was least felt. To an unhappy landsman that morning 
the whole world seemed topsy-turvy. There was no 
straight line to be discovered anywhere ; everything 
seemed to have changed places. Now you beheld the 
steersman against the sky on the crest of an airy ac- 
cHvity, now one bulwark was buried in surge, now the 
other, and anon the sheep at the bows were brought out 
against a foamy cataract. But with all this turmoil and 
dancing and rolling, the Clansman went swiftly on, and 
in due time we were off the Ardnamurchan lighthouse. 
Here we rolled and tossed in an unpleasant manner, — 
the smitten foam springing to the top of the rocks and 
falling back in snowy sheets, — and seemed to make but 
little progress. Gradually, however, the lighthouse began 
to draw slowly behind us, slowly we rounded the rocky 
buttress, slowly the dark shores of Mull drew out to sea, 
and in a quarter of an hour, with dripping decks and 
giddy brains, we had passed from the great bright heave 
and energy of the Atlantic to the quiet waters of Loch 
Sunart, and, sheltered by Mull, were steaming towards 
Tobermory. 

The first appearance of Tobermory is prepossessing; 



TOBERMORY. 361 

but further acquaintance is if possible to be eschewed. 
As the Clansman steams into the bay, the Httle town, 
with its half-circle of white houses, backed by hill ter- 
races on which pretty villas are perched, and flanked by 
sombre pine plantations, is a pleasant picture, and takes 
heart and eye at once. As you approach, however, your 
admiration is lessened, and when you go ashore quite 
obliterated. It has a " most ancient and fish-like smell," 
and all kinds of refuse float in the harbor. Old ocean 
is a scavenger at Tobermory, and is as dirty in his habits 
as Father Thames himself. The houses look pretty and 
clean when seen from the steamer's deck, but on a nearer 
view they deteriorate and become squalid, and several 
transform themselves into small inns, suggestive of the 
worst accommodation and the fiercest alcohol. The 
steamer is usually detained at Tobermory for a couple 
of hours, and during all that time there is a constant 
noise of lading and unlading. You become tired of the 
noise and tumult, and experience a sense of relief when 
steam is got up again ; and with much backing and turn- 
ing and churning of dirty harbor water into questionable 
foam, the large vessel works its way through the difficult 
channel, and slides calmly down the Sound of Mull. 

Gliding down that magnificent Sound, the " Lord of 
the Isles " is in your memory, just as the " Lady of the 
Lake " is in your memory at Loch Katrine. The hours 
float past in music. All the scenes of the noble poem 
rise in vision before you. You pass the entrance to the 
beautiful Loch Aline ; you pass Ardtornish Castle on the 
Morven shore, where the Lords of the Isles held their 
rude parliaments and discussed ways and means ; while 
opposite, Mull draws itself grandly back into lofty moun- 
tains. Farther down you see Duart Castle, with the 
16 



362 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

rock peering above the tide, on which Maclean exposed 
his wife — a daughter of Argyle's — to the throtthng of 
the waves. After passing Duart, Mull trends away to 
the right, giving you a space of open sun-bright sea, 
w^hile on the left the Linnhe Loch stretches towai'd Fort 
William and Ben Nevis. Straight before you is the 
green Lismore, — long a home of Highland learning, — 
and passing it, while the autumn day is wearing towards 
afternoon, you reach Oban, sheltered from western waves 
by the Island of Kerrera. 

The longest delay during the passage is at Oban ; but 
then we had dinner there, which helped to kill the time 
in a pleasant way. The Clansman had received a quan- 
tity of cargo at Tobermory, at Loch Aline a flock of 
sheep were driven on board, goods were taken in plenti- 
fully at other places in the Sound at which we touched, 
and when we had received all the stuffs waiting for us at 
Oban, the vessel was heavily laden. The entire steerage 
deck was a bellowing and bleating mass of black cattle 
and sheep, each " parcel " divided from the other by tem- 
porary barriers. The space amidships was a chaos of 
barrels and trunks and bales of one kind or another, 
and amongst these the steerage passengers were forced to 
dispose themselves. Great piles of wooden boxes con- 
taining herring were laid along the cabin deck, so that if 
a man were disposed to walk about, it behooved him to 
take care of his footsteps. But who cared ! We were 
away from Oban now, the wind was light, the sun setting 
behind us, and the bell ringing for tea. It was the last 
meal we were to have together, and through some con- 
sciousness of this the ice of reserve seemed to melt, and 
the passengers to draw closer to each other. The He- 
bridean clergymen unbent ; the handsome earl chatted to 



THE PASSENGERS. 3C3 

hi3 neighbors as if his forehead had never known the 
golden clasp of the coronet; the sporting men stalked 
their stags over again ; the members of Parliament dis- 
cussed every subject except the affairs of the nation ; 
the rich brewer joked; the merchants from Stornoway 
laughed immoderately; while the cattle-dealers listened 
with awe. Tea was prolonged after this pleasant fashion, 
and then, while the Stornoway merchant^ and the cattle- 
dealers solaced themselves with a tumbler of punch, the 
majority of the other passengers went up stairs to the 
hurricane deck to smoke. What a boon is tobacco to the 
modern Englishman ! It stands in place of wife, child, 
profession, and the interchange of ideas. With a pipe 
in your mouth, indifference to your neighbor is no longer 
churlish, and silent rumination becomes the most excel- 
lent companionship. The English were never very great 
' talkers, but since Sir Walter Raleigh introduced the Vir- 
ginia weed they have talked less than ever. Smoking 
parliaments are always silent ; and as in silence there is 
wisdom, they are perhaps more effective than the talking 
ones. Mr. Carlyle admired those still smoke-wreathed 
Prussian assemblies of Frederick's, and I am astonished 
that he does not advocate the use of the weed in our 
English Witenagemote. Slowly the night fell around 
the smokers, the stars came out in the soft sky as the 
air grew chill, and one by one they went below. Then 
there was more toddy-drinking, some playing at chess, 
one or two attempts at letter-writing, and at eleven 
o'clock the waiters cleared the tables, and began to 
transform the saloon into a large sleeping apartment. 

I climbed up to my berth and fell comfortably asleep. 
I must have been asleep for several hours, although of 
the lapse of time I was of course unconscious, when 



364 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

gradually the horror of nightmare fell upon me. This 
horror was vague and formless at first, but gradually it 
assumed a definite shape. I was Mazeppa; they had 
bound me on the back of the desert-born, and the mighty 
brute, maddened with pain and terror, was tearing along 
the wilderness, crashing through forests, plunging into 
streams, with the howling of wolves close behind and 
coming ever nearer. At last, when the animal cleared a 
ravine at a bound, I burst the bondage of my dream. 
For a moment I could not understand where I was. The 
sleeping apartment seemed to have fallen on one side, 
then it righted itself, but only to fall over on the other, 
then it made a wild plunge forward as if it were a living 
thing and had received a lash. The ship was laboring 
heavily, I heard the voices of the sailors flying in the 
wind, I felt the shock of solid, and the swish of broken 
seas. In such circumstances sleep, for me at least, was' 
impossible, so I slipped out of bed, and steadying myself 
for a favorable moment, made a grab at my clothes. 
With much difficulty I dressed, with greater difficulty I got 
into my boots, and then I staggered on deck. Holding 
on by the first support, I was almost blinded by the glare 
of broken seas. From a high coast against which the 
great waves rushed came the steady glare of a light- 
house, and by that token I knew we were " on *' the Mull 
of Cantyre. The ship was fuming through a mighty 
battle of tides. Shadowy figures of steerage passengers 
were to be seen clinging here and there. One — a young 
woman going to Glasgow as a housemaid, as she after- 
wards told me — was in great distress, was under the 
impression that we were all going to the bottom, and 
came to me for comfort. I quieted her as best I could, 
and procured her a seat. Once when the ship made a 



THE MULL OF CANTYRE. 365 

wild lurch, and a cloud of spray came flying over the 
deck, she exclaimed to a sailor who was shuffling past 
wearing a sou'wester and canvas overalls, " O sailor, is 't 
ever sae bad as this ? " '■' As bad as this," said the 
worthy, poising himself on the unsteady deck, — " as bad 
as this ! Lod, ye sud jist a seen oor last vi'age. There 
was only three besides mysel o' the ship's crew able to 
baud on by a rape." Delivering himself of this scrap of 
dubious comfort, the sailor shuffled onward. Happily the 
turmoil was not of long duration. In an hour we had 
rounded the formidable Mull, had reached comparatively 
smooth water, and with the lights of Campbelton behind 
the paUid glare of furnaces seen afar on the Ayrshire 
coast, and the morning beginning to pencil softly the 
east, I went below again, and slept till we reached Green- 
ock. 



366 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 



GLASGOW. 

THE idea of Glasgow in the ordinary British mind 
is probably something like the following : — " Glas- 
gow, believed by the natives to be the second city of the 
empire, is covered by a smoky canopy through which 
rain penetrates, but which is impervious to sunbeam. It 
is celebrated for every kind of industrial activity ; it is 
fervent in business six days of the week, and spends the 
seventh in hearing sermon and drinking toddy. Its 
population consists of a great variety of classes. The 

* operative,' quiet and orderly enough while plentifully 
supplied with provisions, becomes a Chartist when hun- 
gry, and extracts great satisfaction in listening to orators 
— mainly from the Emerald Isle — declaiming against 
a bloated aristocracy. The 'merchant prince,' known 
to all ends of the earth, and subject sometimes to strange 
vagaries ; at one moment he is glittering away cheerily 
in the commercial heaven, the next he has disappeared, 
like the lost Pleiad, swallowed up of night forever. The 
history of Glasgow may be summed up in one word, — 
cotton ; its deity, gold ; its river, besung by poets, a 
sewer ; its environs, dust and ashes ; the gamin of its 
"wynds and closes less tinctured by education than a 
Bosjesman ; a creature that has never heard a lark sing 
save perhaps in a cage outside a window in the sixth 
story, where a consumptive seamstress is rehearsing the 

* Song of the Shirt,' ' the swallows with their sunny 
backs ' omitted." Now this idea of Glasgow is entirely 



DR. STRANG. 367 

wrong. It contains many cultivated men and women. 
It is the seat of an ancient university. Its cathedral is 
the noblest in Scotland; and its statue of Sir John 
Moore the finest statue in the empire. It is not in itself 
an ugly city, and it has many historical associations. 
Few cities are surrounded by prettier scenery ; and of 
late years it has produced two books, — both authors 
dead now, — one of which mirrors the old hospitable, 
social life of the place, while the other pleasantly sketches 
the interesting localities in its neighborhood. Dr. Strang, 
in his " Clubs of Glasgow," brings us in contact with the 
old jolly times ; and Mr. Macdonald, in his " Rambles 
round Glasgow," visits, stick in hand, every spot of in- 
terest to be found for miles around, knows every ruin 
and its legend, can tell where each unknown poet has 
lived and died, and has the martyrology of the district at 
his fingers' ends. So much for the books ; and now a 
word or two concerning their authors. 

Dr. Strang was long chamberlain to tiie city of Glas- 
gow; for more than half a century he saw it growing 
around him, increasing in population, wealth, and politi- 
cal importance, as during the same period no other 
British city had increased; and as he knew everything 
concerning that growth, he not unnaturally took in it 
the deepest pride. He could remember the old times, the 
old families, the old buildings, the old domestic habits ; 
and when well-stricken in years, it pleased him to recall 
the matters which he remembered, and to contrast them 
with what he saw on every side. I think that on the 
whole he preferred the old Glasgow of his boyhood to 
the new Glasgow of his age. All his life he had a turn 
for literature ; in his earlier day he had written stories 
and sketches, in which he mirrored as vividly as he 



368 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

could the older aspects of the city ; and as, along with 
this turn for writing, he had that antiquarian taste which 
has been a characteristic of almost every distinguished 
Scotsman since Sir Walter, while his years and his 
official position gave him opportunities of gratifying it, 
he knew Glasgow almost as well as the oldest inhabitant, 
who has been a bailie and cognizant of all secrets, knows 
his native village. He was an admirable cicerone; his 
mind was continually pacing up and down the local last 
century, knowing every person he met as he knew his 
contemporary acquaintances ; and when he spoke of the 
progress of Glasgow, he spoke proudly, as if he were 
recounting the progress of his own son. During the 
last years of his life, it struck him that he might turn 
his local knowledge to account. The Doctor was a 
humorist ; he was fond of anecdote, had a very proper 
regard for good eating and drinking; he remembered 
regretfully the rum-punch of his youth, and he was 
deeply versed in the histories of the Glasgow Clubs. In 
a happy hour, it occurred to him that if he told the story 
of those clubs, — described the professors, the merchants, 
the magistrates, the local bigwigs, the clergymen, the 
rakes, who composed their memberships, — he would go 
to the very core and essence of old Glasgow society; 
•while in the course of his work he would find oppor- 
tunities of using what antiquarian knowledge he had 
amassed concerning old houses, old social habits, the 
state of trade at different periods, and the like. The 
idea was a happy one ; the Doctor set to work valiantly, 
and in course of time in a spacious volume, with suitable 
index and appendix, the " Clubs of Glasgow " was before 
the world. Never, perhaps, has so good a book been 
so badly written. The book is interesting, but interest- 



HUGH MACDONALD. 369 

ing in virtue of the excellence of the material, not of 
the literary execution. Yet, on the whole, it may fairly 
be considered sufficient. You open its pages, and step 
from the Present into the Past. You are in the Tron- 
gate, through which Prince Charles has just ridden. You 
see Virginian merchants pacing to and fro with scarlet 
cloaks and gold-headed sticks ; you see belle and beau 
walk a minuet in the Old Assembly-Room ; you see 
flushed Tom and Jerry lock an asthmatic " Charlie " in 
his sentry-box, and roll him down a declivity into the 
river, — all gone long ago, like the rum-punch which 
they brewed, like the limes with which they flavored it ! 

IVIr. Macdonald is Dr. Strang's antithesis, and yet his 
complement. The one worked in antiquarianism and 
statistics ; the other in antiquarianism and poetry. The 
one loved the old houses, the old hedges, the old church- 
yards within the city ; the other loved these things with- 
out the city and miles away from it, — and so between 
them both we have the district very fairly represented. 
Mr. Macdonald was a man of genius, a song-writer, an 
antiquary, a devout lover of beast and bird, of snow- 
drop and lucken-gowan, of the sun setting on Bothwell 
Bank, of the moon shining down on Clydesdale barley- 
fields. He was in his degree one of those poets who 
have, since Burns's time, made nearly every portion of 
Scotland vocal. Just as Tannahill has made Gleniffer 
hills greener by his songs, as Thorn of Inverury has lent 
a new interest to the banks of the Dee, as Scott Riddell 
has added a note to the Border Minstrelsy, has Mr. 
Macdonald taken poetic possession of the country around 
Glasgow. Neither for him nor for any of his compeers 
can the title of great poet be claimed. These men are 
local poets ; but if you know and love the locality, you 
16* X 



370 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

thankfully accept the songs with which they have asso- 
ciated them. If the scenery of a shire is gentle, it is 
fitting that the poet of the shire should possess a genius 
to match. Great scenes demand great poems; simple 
scenes, simple ones. Coleridge's hymn in the Vale of 
Chamouni is a noble performance, but out of place if 
uttered in a Lanarkshire glen where sheep are feeding, 
and where you may search the horizon in vain for an 
elevation of five hundred feet. Mr. Macdonald could 
not have approached Coleridge's hymn had he been 
placed in Chamouni ; but he has done justice to the scenery 
that surrounded him, — made the ivies of Crookston 
more sombre with his verse, and yet more splendid the 
westward-running Clyde in which the sun is setting. 

He was one of those, too, — of whom Scotchmen are 
specially proud, — who, born in humble circumstances, 
and with no aid from college, and often but little from 
school, do achieve some positive literary result, and rec- 
ognition more or less for the same. He was born in 
one of the eastern districts of Glasgow, lived for some 
time in the Island of Mull, in the house of a relative, — 
for, as his name imports, he was a pure Celt, — and 
from his sires he drew song, melancholy, and superstition. 
The superstition he never could completely shake off. 
He could laugh at a ghost-story, could deck it out with 
grotesque or humorous exaggeration ; but the central 
terror glared upon him through all disguises, and, hear- 
ing or relating, his blood was running chill the while. 
Returning to his native city, he was entered an appren- 
tice in a public manufactory, and here it was, — fresh 
from ruined castle, mist folding on the Morven Hills, 
tales told by mountain shepherd or weather-beaten fisher- 
man of corpse-lights glimmering on the sea ; with Eng- 



GLASGOW POETS. 371 

lish literature in which to range and take delight in j^olden 
shreds of leisure ; and with everything, past Highland 
experience and present dim environment, beginuiii"- to 
be overspread by the " purple light of love," — that Mr. 
Macdonald became a poet. Considering the matter now, 
it may be said that his circumstances were not unfavor- 
able to the development of the poetic spirit. Glasgow 
at the period spoken of could boast of her poets. Dugald 
Moore was writing odes to " Earthquake " and "Eclipse," 
and getting quizzed by his companions. Motherwell, the 
author of " Jeanie Morrison," was editor of the Courier, 
and in its columns fighting manfully against Reform. 
Alexander Rodger, who disgusted Sir Walter by the 
publication of a wicked and witty welcome, — singular 
in likeness and contrast to the Magician's own, — on the 
occasion of the visit of his gracious Majesty George 
IV. to Edinburgh, was filling the newspapers of the 
west with satirical verses, and getting himself into trouble 
thereby. Nay, more, this same Alexander Rodger, either 
then or at a later period, held a post in the manufactory 
in which Mr. Macdonald was apprentice. Nor was the 
eye without education, or memory without associations 
to feed upon. Before the door of this manufactory stood 
Glasgow Green, the tree yet putting forth its leaves 
under which Prince Charles stood when he reviewed 
his shoeless Highland host before marching to Falkirk. 
Near the window, and to be seen by the boy every 
time he lifted his head from work, flowed the Clyde, 
bringing recollections of the red ruins of Bothwell Castle, 
where the Douglases dwelt, and the ivy-muffled walls 
of Blantyre Priory where the monks prayed ; carrying 
imagination with it as it flowed seaward to Dumbarton 
Castle, with its Ossianic associations, and recalling, as 



372 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

it sank into ocean, the night when Bruce from his lair 
in Arran watched the beacon broadening on the Carrick 
shore. And from the same windows, looking across the 
stream, he could see the long straggling burgh of Ruth- 
erglen, with the church-tower which saw the bargain 
struck with Menteith for the betrayal of Wallace, stand- 
ing eminent above the trees. And when we know that 
the girl who was afterwards to become his wife was 
growing up there, known and loved at the time, one 
can fancy how often his eyes dwelt on the little town, 
with church-tower and chimney, fretting the sky-line. 
And when he rambled — and he always did ramble — 
inevitably deeper impulses would come to him. North- 
ward from Glasgow a few miles, at Rob Royston, where 
Wallace was betrayed, lived Walter Watson, whose songs 
have been sung by many who never heard his name. 
Seven miles southward from the city lay Paisley in its 
smoke, and beyond that, Gleniffer Braes, — scarcely 
changed since Tannahill walked over them on summer 
evenings. Southeast stretched the sterile district of 
the Mearns, with plovers, and heather, and shallow, glit- 
tering lakes ; and beyond, in a green crescent embracing 
the sea, lay a whole Ayrshire, fiery and full of Burns, 
every stock and stone passionate with him, his daisy 
blooming in every furrow, every stream as it ran sea- 
ward mourning for Highland Mary, — and when night 
fell, in every tavern in the county the blithest lads in 
Christendie sitting over their cups, and flouting the 
horned moon hanging in the window-pane. And then, 
to complete a poetic education, there was Glasgow her- 
self, — black river flowing between two glooms of masts, 
— the Trongate's all-day roar of traffic, and at night the 
faces of the hurrying crowds brought out keenly for a 



HUGH MACDONALD. 373 

moment in the light of the shop windows, — the miles 
of stony streets, with statues in the squcOi-es and open 
spaces, — the grand Cathedral, filled once with Popish 
shrines and rolling incense, on one side of the ravine, 
and on the other, John Knox on his pillar, impeaching 
it with outstretched arm that clasps a Bible. And ever 
as the darkness came, the district northeast and south 
of the city was filled with shifting glare and gloom of 
furnace-fires ; instead of night and its privacy, the splen- 
dor of towering flame brought to the inhabitants of the 
eastern and southern streets a fluctuating scarlet day, 
piercing nook and cranny as searchingly as any sunlight, 
— making a candle needless to the housewife as ?he 
darned stockings for the children, and turning to a per- 
fect waste of charm the blush on a sweetheart's cheek. 
With all these things around him, Mr. Macdonald set 
himself sedulously to work, and whatever may be the 
value of his poetic wares, plenty of excellent material 
lay around him on every side. 

To him all these things had their uses. He had an 
excellent literary digestion, capable of extracting nutri- 
ment from the toughest materials. He assiduously made 
acquaintance with English literature in the evenings, 
gradually taking possession of the British essayists, poets, 
and historians. During this period, too, he cherished 
republican feelings, and had his own speculations con- 
cerning the regeneration of the human race. At this 
time the splendid promise of Chartism made glorious 
the horizon, and Macdonald, like so many of his class, 
conceived that the " five pints " were the avant-couriers 
of the millennium. For him, in a very little while. 
Chartism went out like a theatrical sun. He no longer 
entertained the idea that he could to any perceptible ex- 



374 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

tent aid in the regeneration of the race. Indeed, it is 
doubtful whether, in his latter days, he cared much 
whether the race would ever be regenerated. Man was 
a rascal, had ever been a rascal, and a rascal he would 
remain till the end of the chapter. He was willing to 
let the world wag, certified that the needful thing was 
to give regard to his own private footsteps. His own 
personal hurt made him forget the pained world. He 
was now fairly embarked on the poetic tide. His name, 
appended to copies of verses, frequently appeared in the 
local prints, and gained no small amount of local notice. 
At intervals some song-bird of his brain of stronger 
pinion or gayer plumage than usual would flit from news- 
paper to newspaper across the country ; nay, several 
actually appeared beyond the Atlantic, and, not unno- 
ticed by admiring eyes, perched on a broadsheet here 
and there, as they made their way from the great cities 
towards the western clearings. All this time, too, he 
was an enthusiastic botanist in book and field; a lover 
of the open country and the blowing wind ; a scorner of 
fatigue ; ready any Saturday afternoon when work was 
over for a walk of twenty miles, if so be he might look 
on a rare flower or an ivied ruin. And the girl living 
over in Rutherglen was growing up to womanhood, each 
charm of mind and feature celebrated for many a year 
in glowing verse ; and her he, poet-like, married, — the 
household plenishing of the pair, love and hope, and 
a disregard of inconveniences arising from straitened 
means. The happiest man in the world — but a widower 
before the year was out! With his wife died many 
things, all buried in one grave. Republican dreamings 
and schemes for the regeneration of the world faded after 
that. Here is a short poem, full of the rain-cloud and 



HUGH MACDONALD. 375 

the yellow leaf, which has reference to his feelings at 

the time : — 

" Gorgeous are thy woods, October ! 
Clad in glowing mantles sear; 
Brightest tints of beauty blending 
Like the west, when day 's descending, 
Thou 'rt the sunset of the year. 

'* Fading flowers are thine, October ! 

Droopeth sad the sweet blue-bell ; 
Gone the blossoms April clierish'd — 
Violet, lily, rose, all perish'd — 

Fragrance fled from field and dell. 

" Songless are thy woods, October ! 

Save when redbreast's mournful lay 
Through the calm gray morn is swelling, 
To the list'ning echoes telling 
Tales of darkness and decay. 

" Saddest sounds are thine, October! 

Music of the falling leaf 
O'er the pensive spirit stealing. 
To its inmost depths revealing: 

' Thus all gladness sinks in grief.' 

" I do love thee, drear October ! 

More than budding, blooming Spring; 
Hers is hope, delusive smiling. 
Trusting hearts to grief beguiling, — 
Mem'ry loves thy dusky wing. 

" Joyous hearts ma}' love the summer. 
Bright with sunshine, song, and flower; 

But the heart whose hopes are blighted, 

In the gloom of woe benighted. 
Better loves thy kindred bower. 

" 'T was in thee, thou sad October! 

Death laid low my bosom flower. 
Life hath been a wintry river 
O'er whose ripple gladness never 

Gleameth brightly since that hour. 



376 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

" Hearts would fain be with their treasure, — 

Mine is slumb'ring in the clay; 
Wandering here alone, uncheery, 
Deem 't not strange this heart should weary 

For its own October day." 

The greater proportion of Mr. Macdonald's poems first 
saw the light in the columns of the Glasgow Citizen, 
then, as now, conducted by Mr. James Hedderwick, an 
accomplished journalist, and a poet of no mean order. 
The casual connection of contributor and editor ripened 
into friendship, and in 1849 Mr. Macdonald was perma- 
nently engaged as Mr. Hedderwick's sub-editor. He was 
now occupied in congenial tasks, and a gush of song 
followed this accession of leisure and opportunity. Sun- 
shine and the scent of flowers seemed to have stolen into 
the weekly columns. You " smelt the meadow " in casual 
paragraph and in leading article. The Citizen not only 
kept its eye on Louis Napoleon and the Czar, it paid 
attention to the building of the hedge-sparrow's nest, and 
the blowing of the wild-flower as well. 

Still more to prose than to verse did Mr. Macdonald 
at this time direct his energies ; and he was happy enough 
to encounter a subject exactly suited to his powers and 
mental peculiarities. He was the most uncosmopolitan 
of mortals. He had the strongest local attachments. In 
his eyes, Scotland was the fairest portion of the planet, 
Glasgow the fairest portion of Scotland, and Bridgeton — 
the district of the city in which he dwelt — the fairest 
portion of Glasgow. He would have shrieked like a 
mandrake at uprootal. He never would pass a night 
away from home. But he loved nature ; and the snow- 
drop called him out of the smoke to Castle Milk, the 
lucken-gowan to Kenmure, the craw-flower to Glenifler. 
His heart clung to every ruin in the neighborhood like 



HUGH MACDONALD. 377 

the ivy. He was learned in epitaphs, and spent many 
an hour in village churchyards in extracting sweet and 
hitter thoughts from the half-obliterated inscriptions. 
Jaques, Izaak Walton, and Old Mortality in one, he 
knew Lanarkshire, Renfrewshire, and Ayrshire by heart. 
Keenly sensible to natural beauty, full of antiquarian 
knowledge, and in possession of a prose style singularly 
quaint, picturesque, and humorous, he began, week by 
week, in the columns of the Citizen^ the publication of 
his " Rambles Round Glasgow." City people were as- 
tonished to learn that the country beyond the smoke was 
far from prosaic ; that it had its traditions, its antiquities, 
its historical associations, its glens and waterfalls worthy 
of special excursions. These sketches were afterwards 
collected, and ran, in their separate and more convenient 
form, through two editions. No sooner were the " Ram- 
bles " completed than he projected a new series of sketches 
entitled " Days at the Coast," — sketches which also ap- 
peared in the columns of a weekly newspaper. Mr. 
Macdonald's best writing is to be found in this book, — 
several of the descriptive passages being really notable 
in their way. As we read, the Firth of Clyde glitters 
before us, with white villages sitting on the green shores, 
Bute and the twin Cumbraes are asleep in sunshine, 
while beyond, a stream of lustrous vapor is melting 
on the grisly Arran peaks. The publication of these 
sketches raised the reputation of their author, and, like 
the others, they received the honor of collection, and a 
separate issue. But little more has to be said concerning 
his literary activity. The early afternoon was setting 
in. During the last eighteen months of his life he was 
en^ao-ed on one of the Glasgow morning journals ; and 
when in its columns he rambled as of yore, it was with 



378 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

a comparatively infirm step, and an eye that had lost its 
interest and lustre. " Nature never did betray tlie heart 
that loved her " ; and when the spring-time came, Mac- 
donald, remembering all her former sweetness, journeyed 
to Castle Milk to see the snow-drops, — for there, of all 
their haunts in the west, they come earliest and linger 
latest. It was a dying visit, an eternal farewell. Why 
have I written of this man so? Because he had the 
knack of making friends of all with whom he came into 
contact, and it was my fortune to come into more frequent 
and more intimate contact with him than most. He was 
neither a great man nor a great poet, in the ordinary 
senses of these terms; but since his removal there are 
perhaps some half-dozen persons in the world who feel 
that the "strange superfluous glory of the air" lacks 
something, and that because an eye and an ear are gone, 
the color of the flower is duller, the song of the bird less 
sweet, than in a time they can remember. 

Both Dr. Strang and Mr. Macdonald have written 
about Glasgow, and by their aid we shall be able to see 
something of the city and its surroundings. 

The history of the city, from the period of St. Mungo 
to the commercial crisis in 1857 and the fall of the West- 
ern Bank, presents many points of interest. Looking 
back some thirteen centuries into the gray morning-light 
of time, we see St. Mungo led by an angel, establishing 
himself on the banks of the Moleudinar, and erecting a 
rude chapel or oratory. There for many summers and 
winters he prayed his prayers, sung his aves, and wrought 
his miracles. The fame of his sanctity spread far and 
wide, and many pilgrims came to converse with, and be 
counselled by, the holy man. In process of time — the 
prayers of the saint proving wondrously efficacious, and 



EARLY HISTORY OF GLASGOW. 379 

the Clyde flowing through the lower grounds at a little 
distance being populous with salmon — people began to 
gather, and a score or so of wooden huts, built on the 
river bank, was the beginning of the present city. In 
1197 the cathedral was consecrated by a certain Bishop 
Jocelyn, and from thence, on to the Reformation, its 
affairs continued in a prosperous condition ; its revenues, 
taking into consideration the poverty of the country and 
the thinness of the population, were considerable ; and 
its bishops were frequently men of ambition and of splen- 
did tastes. Its interior was enriched by many precious 
relics. On days of high festival, the Lord Bishop and 
his officials, clad in costly vestments, entered by the 
great western door, and as the procession swept onward 
to the altar, incense fumed from swinging censers, the 
voices of the choir rose in rich and solemn chanting, the 
great organ burst on the ear with its multitudinous 
thunders, and rude human hearts were bowed to the 
ground with contrition, or rose in surges of sound to 
heaven in ecstasy. Glasgow, too, is closely connected 
with Wallace. The Bell o' the Brae saw the flash of 
his sword as the Southrons fled before him. At the kirk 
of Rutherglen, Sir John Meuteith and Sir Aymer de 
Vallance met to plan the capture of the hero ; and at 
Rob Royston the deed of shame was consummated. 
Menteith, with sixty followers, surrounded the house in 
which Wallace slept. Traitors were already witliin. 
His weapons were stolen. Kierly, his servant, was slain. 
According to Blind Harry, at the touch of a hand Wal- 
lace sprung up, — a lion at bay. He seized an oaken 
stool — the only weapon of offence within reach — and 
at a blow broke one rascal's back, in a second splashed 
the wall with the blood and brains of another, when the 



380 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

■whole pack threw themselves upon him, bore him down 
by sheer weight, and secured him. He was conveyed to 
Dumbarton, then held by the English, and from thence 
was delivered into the hands of Edward. The battle 
of Langside was fought in the vicinity of the city. 
Moray, lying in Glasgow, intercepted Mary on her march 
from Hamilton to Dumbarton, and gave battle. Every 
one knows the issue. For sixty miles without drawing 
rein the queen fled towards England and a scaffold. 
Moray returned to Glasgow through the village of Gor- 
bals, his troopers, it is said, wiping their bloody swords 
on the manes of their horses as they rode, and went 
thence to meet his assassin in Linlithgow town. During 
the heat and frenzy of the Reformation, nearly all our 
ecclesiastical edifices went to the ground, or came out of 
the fierce trial with interiors pillaged, altars desecrated, 
and the statues of apostles and saints broken or defaced. 
Glasgow Cathedral was assailed like the rest; already 
the work of destruction had begun, when the craftsmen 
of the city came to the rescue. Their exertions on that 
occasion preserved the noble building for us. They were 
proud of it then ; they are proud of it to-day. During 
the persecution, the country to the west of Glasgow was 
overrun by dragoons, and many a simple Covenanter 
had but short shrift, — seized, tried, condemned, shot, in 
heaven, within the hour. The rambler is certain to en- 
counter, not only in village churchyards, but by the way- 
side, or in the hearts of solitary moors, familiar but with 
the sunbeam and the cry of the curlew, rude martyr 
stones, their sculptures and letters covered with lichen, 
and telling with difficulty the names of the sufferers and 
the manner of their deaths, and intimating that 

•' This stone shall witness be 
'Twixt Presbyterie and Prelacie." 



PRINCE CHARLES. 381 

The next striking event in the history of the city is 
the visit of Prince Charles. Enter on the Christmas 
week of 1745-46 the wild, foot-sore, Highland host on 
its flight from Derby. How the sleek citizens shrink 
back from the worn, hairy faces, and fierce eyes in which 
the lights of plunder burn. " The Prince, the Prince ! 
which is the Prince ? " " That 's he — yonder — wi' the 
lang yellow hair."' Onward rides, pale and dejected, the 
throne-haunted man. He looks up as he catches a fair 
face at a window, and you see he inherits the Stuart 
smile and the Stuart eye. He, like his fathers, will pro- 
voke the bitterest hatred, and be served by the wildest 
devotion. Men will gladly throw away their lives for 
him. The blood of nobles will redden scaffolds for him. 
Shepherds and herdsmen will dare death to shelter him ; 
and beautiful women will bend over his sleep — wrapped 
in clansman's plaid on bed of heather or bracken — to 
clip but one shred of his yellow hair, and feel thereby 
requited for all that they and theirs have suffered in his 
behalf. But with all his beauty and his misfortune?, his 
appearance in Glasgow created little enthusiasm. He 
scarcely gained a recruit. Only a few ladies donned in 
his honor white breast-knots and ribbons. He levied 
a heavy contribution on the inhabitants. A prince at 
the head of an array in want of brogues, and who insisted 
on being provided with shoe-leather gratis, was hardly 
calculated to excite the admiration of prudent Glasgow 
burgesses. He did not remain long. The Green beheld 
for one day the far-stretching files and splendor of the 
Highland war, on the next — in unpaid shoe-leather — 
he marched to his doom. Victory, hke a stormy sun- 
beam, burned for a moment on his arms at Falkirk, and 
then all was closed in blood and thunder on Culloden 
Moor. 



382 A SUMMf:R IN SKYE. 

It is about this period that Dr. Strang's book on the 
" Clubs " begins. In those old, hospitable, hard-drinking 
days, Glasgow seems to have been pre-eminently a city 
of clubs. Every street had its tavern, and every tavern 
had its club. There were morning clubs, noonday clubs, 
evening clubs, and all-day clubs, which, like the sacred 
fire, never went out. The club was a sanctuary wherein 
nestled friendship and enjoyment. The member left his 
ordinary life outside the door, like his great-coat, and 
put it on again when he went away. Within the genial 
circle of the club were redressed all the ills that flesh 
is heir to : the lover forgot Nerissa's disdain, the debtor 
felt no longer his creditor's eye. At the sight of the 
boon companions. Care packed up his bundles and de- 
camped, or if he dared remain, he was immediately laid 
hold off, plunged into the punch-bowl, and there was an 
end of him for that night at least. Unhappily those clubs 
are dead, but as their ghosts troop past in Dr. Strang'? 
pages, the sense is delicately taken by an odor of rum- 
punch. Shortly after the Pretender's visit to the city, 
the Anderston Club — so called from its meetings being 
held in that little village — flourished, drank its punch, 
and cracked its jokes on Saturday afternoons. Perhaps 
no club connected with the city, before or since, could 
boast of a membership so distinguished. It comprised 
nearly all the University professors. Dr. Moore, pro- 
fessor of Greek ; Professor Ross, who faithfully instilled 
the knowledge of Humanities into the Glasgow youth; 
Drs. Cullen and Hamilton, medical teachers of eminence ; 
Adam Smith ; the Brothers Foulis, — under whose au- 
spices the first Fine-Art Academy was established in 
Scotland, and from whose printing-press the Greek and 
Roman classics were issued with a correctness of text 



THE ANDERSTON CLUB. 383 

and beauty of typography which had then no parallel 
in the kingdom, — were regular and zealous members. 
But the heart and soul of the Anderston Club seems to 
have been Dr. Simson, professor of mathematics. His 
heart vibrated to the little hostelry of Anderston as the 
needle vibrates to the pole. He could have found his 
w^ay with his eyes shut. The following story, related 
of the professor by Dr. Strang, is not unamusing in 
itself, and a fair specimen of the piebald style in which 
the greater portion of the book is written : — 

" The mathematician ever made it a rule to throw alge- 
bra and arithmetic ' to the dogs,' save in so far as to dis- 
cover the just quadratic equation and simple division 
of a bowl of punch. One thing alone in the club he 
brought his mathematics to bear upon, and that was his 
glass. This had been constructed on the truest prin- 
ciples of geometry for emptying itself easily, the stalk 
requiring to form but a very acute angle with the open 
lips ere its whole contents had dropped into the oesoph- 
agus. One fatal day, however, Girzy, tlie black-eyed 
and dimple-cheeked servant of the hostelry, in making 
arrangements for the meetini? of the club, allowed this 
favorite piece of crystal, as many black and blue eyed 
girls have done before and since, to slip from her fingers 
and be broken. She knew the professor's partiality for 
his favorite beaker, and thought of getting another ; but 
the day was too far spent, and the Gallowgate, then the 
receptacle of such luxuries, was too far distant to pro- 
cure one for that day's meeting of the fraternity. Had 
Verreville, the city of glass, been then where it has since 
stood, the mathematician's placid temper might not have 
been ruffled, nor might Girzy have found herself in so 
disagreeable a dilemma. The club met, the henbroth 



384 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

smoked in every platter, the few standard dishes dis- 
appeared, the medoc was sipped, and was then succeeded, 
as usual, by a goodly-sized punch-bowl. The enticing 
and delicious compound was mixed, tasted, and pro- 
nounced nectar : the professor, dreaming for a moment 
of some logarithm of Napier's, or problem of Euclid's, 
pushed forward to the fount unconsciously the glass which 
stood before him, drew it back a brimmer, and carried 
it to his lips; but lo ! the increased angle at which the 
professor was obliged to raise his arm roused him from 
his momentary reverie, and, pulling the drinking-cup 
from his lips as if it contained the deadliest henbane, 
exclaimed : ' What is this, Girzy, you have given me ? 
I cannot drink out of this glass. Give me my own, you 
little minx. You might now well know that this is not 
mine.' ' Weel-a-wat, it 's a' I hae for 't, Maister Simson,' 
answered Girzy, blushing. ' Hush, hush,' rejoined the 
mathematician, ' say not so. I know it is not my glass, 
for the outer edge of this touches my nose, and mine 
never did so.' The girl confessed the accident, and the 
professor, though for some minutes sadly out of humor, 
was at length appeased, and swallowed his sherbet at the 
risk of injuring his proboscis." 

Dr. Strang informs us that the eccentric mathemati- 
cian, in his progress from the University to Anderston, 
was in the habit of counting his steps, and that, walking 
blindfolded, he could have told the distance to a frac- 
tion of an inch. He has omitted, however, to tell us 
whether the Doctor's steps were counted on his return, 
and if the numbers corresponded ! 

Along with the notices of the clubs subsequent to the 
one mentioned. Dr. Strang gives his reader a tolerable 
notion of how it went with Glasgow in those years. We 



GLASGOW SUPPERS. 385 

have a peep of the Trongate during the lucrative tobacco 
trade, when Glasgow had her head not a little turned by 
her commercial prosperity. There are rich citizens now 
in the sti-eets. Behold Mr. Glassford, picking his steps 
daintily along the Crown o' the Causeway, with scarlet 
cloak, flowing wig, cocked hat, and gold-headed cane! 
He has money in his purse, and he knows it, too. All 
men warm themselves in the light of his countenance. 
If he kicks you, you are honored, for is it not with a 
golden foot ? How the loud voice droops, how the ob- 
sequious knee bends before him ! He told Tobias Smol- 
lett yesterday that he had five-and-twenty ships sailing 
for him on the sea, and that half a million passed through 
his hands every year. Pass on a little farther, and yon- 
der is Captain Paton sunning himself on the ample pave- 
ment in front of the Tontine. Let us step up to him. 
He will ask us to dinner, and mix us a bowl of punch 
flavored with his own limes, — 

"In Trinidad that grow." 

For hospitality was then, as now, a characteristic of the 
city. The suppers — the favorite meal — were of the 
most substantial description. A couple of turkeys, a 
huge round of beef, and a bowl — a very Caspian Sea — 
of punch, seething to its silver brim, and dashed with 
delicate slices of lime or lemon, formed the principal 
ingredients. Good fellowship was the order of the day. 
In the morning and forenoon the merchants congregated 
in the Tontine reading-room for news and gossip, and at 
night the punch-bowl was produced, emptied, replenished, 
and emptied again, while the toasts — "Down with the 
Convention," "The Pilot that weathered the storm" — 
were drunk with enthusiasm in some cosey tavern in the 
17 Y 



386 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

then aristocratic Princes Street. At a later period, dur- 
ing the disturbed years that preceded the Reform Bill, 
we see the moneyed classes — "soor-milk jockeys" they 
were profanely nicknamed by the mob — eagerly enroll- 
ing themselves in yeomanry corps, — on field-days re- 
splendent in laced jacket and shako, or clanking through 
the streets with spur and sabre. As we approach our 
own times the clubs pale their ineffectual fires, — they 
shrink from planets to wills-o'-the-wisp ; at last 

" They die away 
And fade into the light of common day." 

Glasgow is now, so far as history is concerned, a clubless 
city. 

During the commercial distress of 1848-49, and the 
agitation consequent on the flight of Louis Philippe and 
the establishment of the French Republic, Glasgow had 
the bad eminence of going further in deeds of lawless- 
ness and riot than any other city in the empire. The 
" Glasgow operative " is, while trade is good and wages 
high, the quietest and most inoffensive of creatures. He 
cares comparatively little for the affairs of the nation. 
He is industrious and contented. Each six months he 
holds a saturnalia, — one on New-year's day, the other at 
the Fair (occurring in July), and his excesses at these 
points keep him poor during the intervals. During 
periods of commercial depression, however, when wages 
are low, and he works three-quarter time, he has a fine 
nose to scent political iniquities. He begins to suspect 
that all is not right with the British constitution. These 
unhappy times, too, produce impudent demagogues, whose 
power of lungs and floods of flashy rhetoric work incredi- 
ble mischief. To these he seriously inclines his ear. He 
is hungry and excited. He is more anxious to reform 



THE GLASGOW OPEBATIVE. 387 

Parliament than to reform himself. He cries out against 
tyranny of class-legislation, forgetting the far harder 
tyranny of the gin-palace and the pawn-shop. He thinks 
there should be a division of property. Nay, it is known 
that some have in times like these marked out the very 
houses they are to possess when the goods of the world 
are segregated and appropriated anew. What a dark 
sea of ignorance and blind wrath is ever weltering be- 
neath the fair fabric of English prosperity ! Tiiis dan- 
gerous state of feeling had been reached in the year 
spoken of. Hungry, tumultuous meetings were held on 
the Green. The ignorant people were maddened by the 
harangues of orators, — fellows who were willing to burn 
the house of the nation about the ears of all of us, if so 
be their private pig could be roasted thereby. "The 
rich have food," said they, " you have none. You cannot 
die of hunger. Take food by the strong hand wherever 
you can get it." Tliis advice was acted upon. The 
black human sea poured along London Street, and then 
split, — one wave rushed up the High Street, another 
along the Trongate, — each wasting as it went. The 
present writer, then a mere lad, was in the streets at the 
time. The whole thing going on before his eyes seemed 
strange, incredible, too monstrous to be real, — a hideous 
dream which he fought with and strove to thrust away. 
For an hour or so all order was lost. All that had been 
gained by a thousand years of strife and effort, — all that 
had been wrested from nature, — all the civilities and ameni- 
ties of life, — seemed drowned in a wild sea of scoundrel- 
isra. The world was turned topsy-turvy. Impossibility 
became matter of fact. Madness ruled the hour. Gun- 
shops were broken open, and wretched-looking men, who 
hardly knew the muzzle from the stock, were running 



388 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

about with muskets over their shoulders. In Buchanan 
Street a meal-cart was stopped, overturned, the sacks 
ripped open with knives, and women were seen hurrying 
home to their famishing broods with aprons full ; some 
of the more greedy with a cheese under each arm. In 
Queen Street a pastry cook's was attacked, the windows 
broken, and the delicacies they contained greedily de- 
voured. A large glass-case, filled with colored lozenges, 
arranged in diamond patterns, stood serene for a while 
amid universal ruin. A scoundrel smashed it with a 
stick ; down rushed a deluge of lozenges, and a dozen 
rioters were immediately sprawling over each other on 
the ground to secure a share of the spoil. By this time 
alarm had spread. Shops were shutting in all directions, 
some of the more ingenious traders, it is said, pasting " A 
Shop to Let " upon their premises, — that they might 
thereby escape the rage or the cupidity of the rioters. 
At last, weary with spoliation, the mob, armed with guns, 
pistols, and what other weapons they had secured, came 
marching along the Trongate, a tall begrimed collier, 
with a rifle over his shoulder, in front. This worthy, 
more than two-thirds drunk, kept shouting at intervals, 
" Vive la Republic ! We '11 hae Vive la Republic, an' 
naething but Vive la Republic ! " to which intelligible 
political principle his followers responded with vociferous 
cheers. At last they reached the Cross. Here a barri- 
cade was in process of erection. Carts were stopped and 
thrown down, and London Street behind was crowded 
with men, many of them provided with muskets. On a 
sudden the cry arose, " The sogers, the sogers ! " terrible 
to the heart of a British mob. Hoofs were heard clatter- 
ing along the Trongate, and the next moment an officer 
of Carabineers leaped his horse over the barricade, fol- 



\ 



GLASGOW RIOTS. 389 

lowed by his men, perhaps a dozen in all. The effect 
was instantaneous. In five minutes not a rioter was to 
be seen. When evening fell the Trongate wore an un- 
wonted appearance. Troops stacked their bayonets, 
lighted their fires, and bivouacked under the piazzas of 
the Tontine. Sentinels paced up and down the pave- 
ments, and dragoons patrolled the streets. Next day 
the disturbance came to a crisis. A riot occurred in 
Calton or Bridgeton. The pensioners were sent to quell 
it there. While marching down one of the principal 
streets, they were assailed by volleys of stones, the crowd 
meanwhile falling back sullenly from the bayonet points. 
The order was given to fire, and the veterans, whose 
patience was completely exhausted, sent their shot right 
into the mass of people. Several were wounded, and 
one or more killed. When the pensioners were gone, a 
corpse was placed on boards, carried through the streets 
shoulder-high by persons who, by that means, hoped to 
madden and rouse the citizens ; a large crowd attending, 
every window crammed with heads as the ghastly pro- 
cession passed. As they approached the centre of the 
city, a file of soldiers was drawn across the street up 
which they were marching. Wlien the crowd fell back, 
the bearers of the dead were confronted by the ominous 
glitter of steel. The procession paused, stopped, wavered, 
and finally beat a retreat, and thus the riots closed. 
That evening people went to look at the spot where the 
unhappy collision had taken place. Groups of work- 
men were standing about, talking in tones of excitement. 
The wall of one of the houses was chipped in places by 
bullets, and the gutter, into which a man had reeled, 
smashed by the death-shot, had yet a ruddy stain. 
Next day tranquillity was in a great measure re tored. 



390 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

Masses of special constables had by this time been organ- 
ized, and marched through the city in force. Although 
they did not come into contact with the rioters, the 
bravery they displayed in cudgelling what unfortunate 
females, and keelies of tender years fell into their hands, 
gave one a lively idea of the prowess they would have 
exhibited had they met foes worthy of the batons they 
bore. 

Glasgow, as most British readers are aware, is situated 
on both sides of the Clyde, some twenty or thirty miles 
above its junction with the sea. Its rapidity of growth 
is perhaps without a parallel in the kingdom. There are 
persons yet alive who remember when the river, now laden 
with shipping, was an angler's stream, in whose gravelly 
pools the trout played, and up whose rapids the salmon 
from the sea flashed like a sunbeam ; and when the banks, 
now lined with warehouses and covered with merchan- 
dise of every description, really merited the name of the 
Broomy Law. Science and industry have worked wonders 
here. The stream, which a century ago hardly allowed the 
passage of a herring-boat or a coal-gabbert, bears on its 
bosom to-day ships from every clime, and mighty ocean 
steamers which have wrestled with the hurricanes of the 
Atlantic. Before reaching Glasgow the Clyde traverses 
one of the richest portions of Scotland, for in summer 
Clydesdale is one continued orchard. As you come down 
the stream towards the city, you have away to the right 
the mineral districts of Gartsherrie and Monkland, — not 
superficially captivating regions. Everything there is 
grimed with coal-dust. Spring herself comes with a 
sooty face. The soil seems calcined. You cannot see 
that part of the world to advantage by day. With the 
night these innumerable furnaces and iron-works will 



MOORS OF THE COVENANT. 391 

rush out into vaster volume and wilder color, and for 
miles the country will be illuminated, — restless with 
mighty lights and shades. It is the Scottish Stafford- 
shire. On the other hand, away to the southwest stretch 
the dark and sterile moors of the covenant, with wild 
moss-hags, treacherous marshes green as emerald, and 
dark mossy lochs, on whose margins the water-hen breeds, 
— a land of plovers and curlews, in whose recesses and 
in the heart of whose mists the hunted people lay while 
the men of blood were hovering near, — life and death 
depending on the cry and flutter of a desert bird, or the 
flash of a sunbeam along the stretches of the moor. In 
the middle of that melancholy waste stands the farm- 
house of Lochgoin, intimately connected with the hic^tory 
of the Covenanters. To this dwelling came Cameron 
and Peden, and found shelter ; here lies the notched 
sword of Captain John Paton, and the drum which was 
beaten at Drumclog by the hill-folk, and the banner that 
floated above their heads that day. And here, too, was 
written the " Scots Worthies," — a book considered by 
the austerer portion of the Scottish peasantry as next in 
sacredness to the Bible. And it has other charms, this 
desolate country : over there by Mearns, Chrrstopher 
North spent his glorious boyhood; in this region, too, 
Pollok was born, and fed his gloomy spirit on congenial 
scenes. Approaching the city, and immediately to the 
left, are the Cathkin Braes ; and close by the village of 
Cathcart, past which the stream runs murnmring in its 
rocky bed, is the hill on which Mary stood and saw 
Moray shiver her army like a potsherd. Below Glasgow, 
and westward, stretches the great valley of the Clyde. 
On the left is the ancient burgh of Kenfrevv ; farther 
back Paisley and Johnston, covered with smoke ; above 



392 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

all, Gleniffer Braes, greenly fair in sunlight ; afar Neils- 
ton Pad, raising its flat summit to the skj, like a table 
spread for a feast of giants. On the right are the Kil- 
patrick Hills, terminating in the abrupt peak of Dum- 
buck ; and beyond, the rock of Dumbarton, the ancient 
fortress, the rock of Ossian's song. It rises before you 
out of another world and state of things, with years of 
lamentation and battle wailing around it like sea-mews. 
By this time the river has widened to an estuary. Port- 
Glasgow, with its deserted piers, and Greenock, populous 
with ships, lie on the left. Mid-channel, Rosneath is 
gloomy with its woods ; on the farther shore Helens- 
burgh glitters like a silver thread ; in front, a battlement 
of hills. You pass the point of Gourock, and are in 
the Highlands. From the opposite coast Loch Long 
stretches up into yon dark world of mountains. Yonder 
is Holy Loch, smallest and loveliest • of them all. A 
league of sea is glittering like frosted silver between you 
and Dunoon. The mighty city, twenty miles away, loud 
with traffic, dingy with smoke, is the working Glasgow ; 
here, nestling at the foot of mountains, stretching along 
the sunny crescents of bays, clothing beaked promon- 
tories with romantic villas, is another Glasgow keeping 
holiday the whole summer long. These villages are the 
pure wheat, — the great city, with its strife and toil, its 
harass and heart-break, the chaff and husks from which 
it is winnowed. The city is the soil, this region the 
bright consummate flower. The merchant leaves behind 
him in the roar and vapor his manifold vexations, and 
appears here with his best face and happiest smile. Here 
no bills intrude, the fluctuations of stock appear not, 
commercial anxieties are unknown. In their places are 
donkey-rides, the waving of light summer di-esses, merry 



ARRAN. 893 

picnics, and boating-parties at sunset on the splendid sea. 
Here are the "comforts of the Sautmarket" in the midst of 
legendary hills. When the tempest is brewing up among 
the mountains, and night comes down a deluge of wind 
and rain ; when the sea-bird is driven athwart the gloom 
like a flake of foam severed from the wave, and the 
crimson eye of the Clock glares at intervals across the 
frith, — you can draw the curtains, stir the fire, and be- 
guile the hours with the smiling wisdom of Thackeray, 
if a bachelor ; if a family man, " The Battle of Prague " 
or the overture to " Don Giovanni," zealously thumped 
by filial hands, will drown the storm without. Hugging 
the left shore, we have Largs before us, where long ago 
Haco and his berserkers found dishonorable graves. On 
the other side is Bute, — fairest, most melancholy of all 
the islands of the Clyde. From its sheltered position it 
has an atmosphere soft as that of Italy, and is one huge 
hospital now. You turn out in the dog-days, your head 
surmounted wdtli a straw-hat ample enough to throw a 
shadow round you, your nether man encased in linen 
ducks, and see invalids sitting everywhere in the sunniest 
spots like autumn flies, or wandering feebly about, wrapt 
in greatcoats, their chalked faces shawled to the nose. 
You are half broiled, they shiver as if in an icy wind. 
Their bent figures take the splendor out of the sea and 
the glory out of the sunshine. They fill the summer air 
as with the earthy horror of a new-made grave. You 
feel that they hang on life feebly, and will drop with the 
yellow leaf. Beyond Bute are the Cumbraes, twin sis- 
ters born in one fiery hour; and afar Arran, with his 
precipices, purple-frowning on the level sea. 

In his preface to the "Rambles" Mr. Macdonald 
writes : — 

17* 



394 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

" The district of which Glasgow is the centre, while 
it possesses many scenes of richest Lowland beauty, and 
presents many glimpses of the stern and wild in High- 
land landscape, is peculiarly fertile in reminiscences of 
a historical nature. In the latter respect, indeed, it is 
excelled by few localities in Scotland, — a circumstance 
of which many of our citizens seem to have been hitherto 
almost unconscious. There is a story told of a gentle- 
man who, having boasted that he had travelled far to see 
a celebrated landscape on the Continent, was put to the 
blush by being compelled to own that he had never 
visited a scene of superior lovehness than one situated 
on his own estate, and near which he had spent the 
greater part of his life. The error of this individual is 
one of which too many are guilty." 

These sentences would make an admirable text for 
a little week-day sermon. For we are prone, in other 
matters than scenery, to seek our enjoyments at a dis- 
tance. We would gather that happiness from the far- 
off stars which, had we the eyes to see, is all the while 
lying at our feet. You go to look at a celebrated scene. 
People have returned from it in raptures. You have 
heard them describe it, you have read about it, and 
you naturally expect something very fine indeed. When 
you arrive, the chances are that its beauties are carefully 
stowed away in a thick mist, or you are drenched to 
the skin, or you find the hotel full, and are forced to 
sleep in an outhouse, or on the heather beneath the soft 
burning planets, and go home with a rheumatism which 
embitters your existence to your dying day. Or, if you 
are lucky enough to find the weather cloudless and the 
day warm, you are doomed to cruel disappointment. Is 
that what you have heard and read so much about.'* 



UNEXPECTEDNESS OF PLEASURE. 395 

That pitiful drivelling cascade ! Why, you were led to 
expect the wavy grace of the Gray Mare's Tail com- 
bined with the flash and tlmnder of Niagara. Tliat a 
mountain forsooth! It is n't so much bigger than Ben 
Lomond after all! You feel swindled and taken in. 
You commend the waterfall to the fiend. You snap your 
fingers in the face of the mountain. " You 're a hum- 
bug, sir. You 're an impostor, sir. I, — I '11 write to 
the Times and expose you, sir." On the other hand, 
the townsman, at the close of a useful and busy day, 
walks out into the country. The road is pretty ; he has 
never been on it before ; he is insensibly charmed along. 
He reaches a little village or clachan, its half-dozen 
thatched houses set down amid blossoming apple-trees; 
the smoke from the chimneys, telling of the prepara- 
tion of the evening meal, floating up into the rose of 
sunset. A laborer is standing at the door with a child 
in his arms ; the unharnessed horses are drinking at the 
trough; the village boys and girls are busy at their 
games ; two companies, linked arm-in-arm, are alternately 
advancing and receding, singing all the while with their 
Bweet shrill voices, — 

" The Campsie Duke 's a riding, a riding, a riding." 

This is no uncommon scene in Scotland, and why does 
it yield more pleasure than the celebrated one that you 
have gone a hundred miles to see, besides spending no 
end of money on the way ? Simply because you have 
approached it with a pure, healthy mind, uudebauched 
by rumor or praise. It has in it the element of unex- 
pectedness ; wiiich, indeed, is the condition of all delight, 
for pleasure must surprise if it is to be worthy of the 
name. The pleasure that is expected and looked for 



396 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

never come?, or if it does it is in a shape so changed 
that recognition is impossible. Besides, you have found 
out the scene, and have thereby a deeper interest in it. 
This same law pervades everything. You hear of 
Coleridge's wonderful conversation, and in an evil hour 
make your appearance at Highgate. The mild-beaming, 
silvery-haired sage, who conceived listening to be the 
whole duty of man, talks for the space of three mortal 
hours, — by you happily unheard. For, after the first 
twenty minutes, you are conscious of a hazy kind of 
light before your eyes, a soothing sound is murmuring in 
your ears, a delicious numbness is creeping over all your 
faculties, and by the end of the first half-hour you are 
snoring away as comfortably as if you were laid by the 
side of your lawful spouse. You are disappointed of 
course: of the musical wisdom which has been flowing 
in plenteous streams around you have not tasted one 
drop ; and you never again hear a man praised for 
power or brilliancy of conversation without an inward 
shudder. The next day you take your place on the 
coach, and are fortunate enough to secure your favorite 
seat beside the driver. Outside of you is a hard-featured 
man, wrapt in a huge blue pilot-coat. You have no idea 
to what class of society he may belong. It is plain that 
he is not a gentleman in the superfine sense of that term. 
He has a very remarkable gift of silence. When you 
have smoked your cigar out, you hazard a remark about 
the weather. He responds. You try his mind as an 
angler tries a stream, to see if anything will rise. One 
thing draws on another, till, after an hour's conversation, 
which has flown over like a minute, you find that you 
have really learned something. The unknown individ- 
ual in the pilot-coat, who has strangely come out of 



PLEASURE NOT TO BE SOUGHT AT A DISTANCE. 397 

space upon you, and as strangely returns into space 
again, has looked upon the world, and has formed his 
own notions and theories of what goes on there. On 
him life has pressed as well as on you ; joy at divers 
times has lighted up his grim features ; sorrow and 
pain have clouded them. There is something in tlie 
man; you are sorry when he is dropped on the road, 
and say " Good by," with more than usual feeling. 
Why is all this? The man in the pilot-coat does not 
talk so eloquently as S. T. C, but he instructs and pleases 
you, — and just because you went to hear the celebrated 
Talker, as you go to see the Irish Giant, or the Per- 
forming Pig, you are disappointed, as you deserved to 
be. The man in the pilot-coat has come upon you natu- 
rally, unexpectedly. At its own sweet will "the cloud 
turned forth its silver lining on the night." Happiness 
may best be extracted from the objects surrounding us. 
The theory on which our loud tumultuary modern life 
is based, — that we can go to Pleasure, tliat if we fi"e- 
queut her haunts we are sure to find her, — is a heresy 
and a falsehood. She will not be constrained. She 
obeys not the call of the selfish or the gi-eedy. Depend 
upon it, she is as frequently found on homely roads, and 
amongst rustic villages and farms, as among the glaciers 
of Chamouni or the rainbows of Niagara. 

In one of his earliest rambles, Mr. Macdonald follows 
the river for some miles above the city. The beauty of 
the Clyde below Glasgow is well known to the civilized 
world. Even the roue of landscape, to whom the Rhine 
is weariness and the Alps commonplace, has felt his 
heart leap within him while gazing on that magnificent 
estuary. But it is not only in her maturity that the 
Clyde is fair. Beauty attends her from her birth on 



898 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

Rodger Law until she is wedded with ocean, — Bute, 
and the twin Cumbraes, bridesmaids of the stream ; Ar- 
ran, groomsman to the main. With Mr. Macdonald's 
book in pocket to be a companion at intervals, — for one 
requires no guide, having years before learned every 
curve and bend of the river, — let us start along its 
banks towards Carmyle and Ken mure wood. We pass 
Dalmarnock Bridge, and leave the city, with its win- 
dowed factories and driving wheels and everlasting can- 
opy of smoke behind. The stream comes glittering down 
between green banks, one of which rises high on the left, 
so that farther vision in that quarter is intercepted. On 
the right are villages and farms ; afar, the Cathkin 
Braes, the moving cloud shadows mottling their sunny 
slopes; and straight ahead, and closing the view, the 
spire of Cambuslang Church, etched on the pallid azure 
of the sky. We are but two miles from the city, and 
everything is bright and green. The butterfly flutters 
past ; the dragon-fly darts hither and thither. See, he 
poises himself on his winnowing wings, about half a yard 
from one's nose, which he curiously inspects ; that done, 
off darts the winged tenpenny-nail, his rings gleaming 
like steel. There are troops of swallows about. Watch 
one. Now he is high in air, — now he skims the Clyde. 
You can hear his sharp, querulous twitter as he jerks 
and turns. Nay, it is said that the kingfisher himself has 
been seen gleaming along these sandy banks, illuminat- 
ing them like a meteor. At some little distance a white 
house is pleasantly situated amongst trees, — it is Dal- 
beth Convent. As we pass, one of the frequent bells 
summoning the inmates to devotion is stirring the sunny 
Presbyterian air. A little on this side of the convent, a 
rapid brook comes rushing to the Clyde, crossed by a rude 



DALBETH CONVENT. 899 

bridge of planks, which has been worn by the feet of 
three geneiations at the very least. The brook, which 
is rather huffy and boisterous in its way, particularly 
after rain, had, a few days before, demolished and broken 
up said wooden planks, and carried one of them off. 
Arriving, we find a woman and boy anxious to cross, yet 
afraid to venture. Service is proffered, and, after a Ijttle 
trouble, both are landed in safety on the farther bank. 
The woman is plainly, yet neatly dressed, and may be 
about forty-five years of age or thereby. The boy has 
turned eleven, has long yellow hair hanging down his 
back, and looks thin and slender for his years. With 
them they have something wrapped up in a canvas cloth, 
which, to the touch as they are handed across, seem to 
be poles of about equal length. For the slight serv^ice 
the woman returns thanks in a tone which smacks of the 
southern English counties. " Good by " is given and 
returned, and we proceed, puzzling ourselves a good deal 
as to what kind of people they are, and what their busi- 
ness may be in these parts, but can come to no conclu- 
sion. However, it does not matter much, for the iron- 
works are passed now, and the river banks are beautiful. 
They are thickly wooded, and at a turn the river flows 
straight down upon you for a mile, with dusty meal-mills 
on one side, a dilapidated wheel-house on the other, and 
stretching from bank to bank a half-natural, half-artificial 
shallow horse-shoe fall, over which the water tumbles in 
indolent foam, — a sight which a man who has no press- 
ing engagements, and is fond of exercise, may walk fifty 
miles to see, and be amply rewarded for his pains. In 
front is a feny, — a rope extending across the river by 
which the boat is propelled, — and lo ! a woman in a 
scarlet cloak on the opposite side hails the ferryman, and 



400 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

that functionary comes running to his duty. Just within 
the din of the shallow horse-shoe fall lies the village of 
Carmyle, an old, quiet, sleepy place, where nothing has 
happened for the last fifty years, and where nothing will 
happen for fifty years to come. Ivy has been the busi- 
est thing here ; it has crept up the walls of the houses, 
and in some instances fairly " put out the light " of the 
windows. The thatched roofs are covered with emerald 
moss. The plum-tree which blossomed some months 
ago blossomed just the same in the spring which wit- 
nessed the birth of the oldest inhabitant. For half a 
century not one stone has been placed upon another 
here, — there are only a few more green mounds in the 
churchyard. It is the centre of the world. All else 
is change ; this alone is stable. There is a repose deeper 
than sleep in this little antiquated village, — ivy-mufiied, 
emerald-mossed, lullabied forever by the fall of waters. 
The meal-mills, dusty and white as the clothes of the 
miller himself, whir industriously ; the waters of the lade 
come boiling out from beneath the wheel, and reach the 
Clyde by a channel dug by the hand of man long ago, 
but like a work of nature's now, so covered with furze as 
it is. Look down through the clear amber of the cur- 
rent, and you see the " long green gleet of the slippery 
stones " in which the silver-bellied eel delights. Woe 
betide the luckless village urchin that dares to wade 
therein. There is a sudden splash and roar. When he 
gets out, he is laid with shrill objurgations across the 
broad maternal knee, and fright and wet clothes are 
avenged by sound whacks from the broad maternal hand. 
Leaving the village, we proceed onward. The banks 
come closer, the stream is shallower, and whirls in eddy 
and circle over a rocky bed. There is a woodland lone- 



KENMUIR BANK. 401 

liness about the river which is aided by the solitary 
angler standing up to his middle in the water, and wait- 
ing patiently for the bite that never comes, or by the 
water-ousel flitting from stone to stone. In a quarter of 
an hour we reach Kenmuir Bank, which rises some 
seventy feet or so, filled with trees, their trunks rising 
bare for a space, and then spreading out with branch 
and foliage into a matted shade, permitting the passage 
only of a few flakes of sunlight at noon, resembling, in 
the green twilight, a flock of visionary butterflies alighted 
and asleep. Within, the wood is jungle ; you wade to 
the knees in brushwood and bracken. The trunks are 
clothed with ivy, and snakes of ivy creep from tree to 
tree, some green with life, some tarnished with decay. 
At the end of the Bank there is a clear well, in which, 
your face meeting its shadow, you may quench your 
thirst. Seated here, you have the full feeling of solitude. 
An angler wades out into mid-channel, — a bird darts 
out of a thicket, and slides away on noiseless wing, — the 
shallow wash and murmur of the Clyde flows through a 
silence as deep as that of an American wilderness, — 
and yet, by to-morrow, the water which mirrors as it 
passes the beauty of the lucken-gowan hanging asleep, 
will have received the pollutions of a hundred sewers, and 
be bobbing up and down among the crowds of vessels at 
the Broomielaw. Returning homeward by the top of 
Kenmuir Bank, we gaze westward. Out of a world of 
smoke the stalk of St. Rollox rises like a banner-staif, its 
vapory streamer floating on the wind ; and afar, through 
the gap between the Campsie and Kilpatrick hills, Ben 
Lomond himself, with a streak of snow upon his shoulder. 
Could one but linger here for a couple of hours, one 
would of a verity behold a sight, — the sun settiug in 



402 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

yonder lurid smoke-ocean. The wreaths of vapor which 
seem so commonplace and vulgar now, so suggestive of 
trade and swollen purses and rude manners, would then 
become a glory such as never shepherd beheld at sunrise 
on his pastoral hills. Beneath a roof of scarlet flame, 
one would see the rolling edges of the smoke change into 
a brassy brightness, as with intense heat; the dense mass 
and volume of it dark as midnight, or glowing with the 
solemn purple of thunder ; while right in the centre of 
all, where it has burned a clear way for itself, the broad 
fluctuating orb, paining the eye with concentrated splen- 
dors, and sinking gradually down, a black spire cutting 
his disk in two. But for this one cannot wait, and the 
apparition will be unbeheld but by the rustic stalking 
across the field in company with his prodigious shadow, 
and who, turning his face to the flame, will conceive it 
the most ordinary thing in the world. We keep the 
upper road on our return, and in a short time are again 
at Carmyle ; we have no intention of tracing the river 
bank a second time, and so turn up the narrow street. 
But what is to do? The children are gathered in a cir- 
cle, and the wives are standing at the open doors. There 
is a performance going on. The tambourine is sounding, 
and a tiny acrobat, with a fillet round his brow, tights 
covered with tinsel lozenges, and flesh-colored shoes, is 
striding about on a pair of stilts, to the no small amaze- 
ment and delight of the juveniles. He turns his head, 
and — why, it 's the little boy I assisted across the brook 
at Dalbeth three hours ago, and of course that 's the old 
lady who is thumping and jingling the tambourine, and 
gathering in the halfpennies ! God bless her jolly old 
face ! who would have thought of meeting her here ? I 
am recognized, the boy waves me farewell, the old lady 



PAISLEY. 403 

smiles and curtsies, thumps her tambourine, and rattles 
the little bells of it with greater vigor than ever. The 
road to Glasgow is now comparatively uninteresting. 
The trees wear a dingy color; you pass farm-houses, 
with sooty stacks standing in the yard. 'T is a coaly, 
dusty district, which has characteristics worth noting. 
For, as the twilight falls dewily on far-off lea and moun- 
tain, folding up daisy and buttercup, putting the hnnet 
to sleep beside his nest of young in the bunch of broom, 
here the circle of the horizon becomes Hke red-hot steel ; 
the furnaces of the Clyde iron-works lift up their mighty 
towers of flame, throwing 

" Large and angry lustres o'er the sky, 

And shifting Hghts across the long dark roads " ; 

and so, through chase of light and shade, through glim- 
mer of glare and gloom, we find our way back to Glas- 
gow, — its low hum breaking into separate and recog- 
nizable sounds, its nebulous brightness into far-stretching 
street-lamps, as we draw near. 

The tourist who travels by train from Glasgow to 
Greenock must pass the town of Paisley. If he glances 
out of the carriage window he will see beneath him a 
third-rate Scotch towm, through which flows the foulest 
and shallowest of rivers. 

The principal building in the town, and the one which 
first attracts the eye of a stranger, is the jail ; then follow 
the church spires in their order of merit. Unfortunately 
the train passes not through Paisley, but over it; and 
from his " coign of vantage " the tourist beholds much 
that is invisible to the passenger in the streets. All 
the back-greens, piggeries, filthy courts, and unmen- 
tionable abominations of the place, are revealed to 



404 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

him for a moment as the express flashes darkly across 
the railway bridge. For the seeing of Scotch towns a 
bird's-eye view is plainly the worst point of view. In all 
likelihood the tourist, as he passes, will consider Paisley 
the ugliest town he has ever beheld, and feel inwardly 
grateful that his lot has not been cast therein. But in 
this the tourist may be very much mistaken. Paisley is 
a remarkable place, — one of the most remarkable in 
Scotland. Just as Comrie is the abode of earthquakes, 
Paisley is the abode of poetic inspiration. There is no 
accounting for the taste of the celestials. Queen Titania 
fell in love with Bottom when he wore the ass's head ; 
and Paisley, ugly as it is, is the favorite seat of the 
Muses. There Apollo sits at the loom and earns eighteen 
shillings per week. At this moment, and the same might 
have been said of any moment since the century came in, 
there is perhaps a greater number of poets living and 
breathing in this little town than in the whole of Eng- 
land. Whether this may arise from the poverty of the 
place, on the principle that the sweetness of the nightin- 
gale's song is connected in some subtle way with the 
thorn against which she leans her breast, it may be use- 
less to inquire. Proceed from what cause it may. Paisley 
has been for the last fifty years or more an aviary of 
singing-birds. To said aviary I. had once the honor to be 
introduced. Some years ago, when dwelling in the out- 
skirts of the town, I received a billet intimating that the 
L. C. A. would meet on the evening of the 26th Jan. 
18 — , in honor of the memory of the immortal Robert 
Burns, and requesting my attendance. N. B. — Supper 
and drink, Is. 6d. Being a good deal puzzled by the 
mystic characters, I made inquiries, and discovered that 
L. C. A. represented the " Literary and Convivial As- 



THE POETS. 405 

sociation," which met every Saturday evening for the 
cultivation of the minds of its members, — a soil which 
for years had been liberally irrigated with toddy, — with 
correspondent effects. To this cheap feast of the gods 
on the sacred evening in question I directed my steps, 
and beheld the assembled poets. There could scarcely 
have been fewer than eighty present. Strange ! Each 
of these conceited himself of finer clay than ordinary 
mortals ; each of these had composed verses, some few- 
had even published small volumes or pamphlets of verse 
by subscription, and drank the anticipated profits ; each 
of these had his circle of admirers and flatterers, his 
small public and shred of reputation ; each of these 
envied and hated his neighbor ; and not unfrequently 
two bards would quarrel in their cups as to which of 
them was possessor of the larger amount of fame. At that 
time the erection of a monument to Thorn of Inverury 
had been talked about, apropos of which one of the bards 
remarked, " Ou ay, jist like them. They '11 bigg us 
monuments whan we 're deid : I wush they 'd gie us 
something when we 're leevin'." In that room, amid 
that motley company, one could see the great literary 
world unconsciously burlesqued and travestied, shadowed 
forth there the emptiness and noise of it, the blatant 
vanity of many of its members. The eighty poets pre- 
sented food for meditation. Well, it is from this town 
that I propose taking a walk, for behind Paisley lie 
Gleniffer Braes, the scene of Tannahill's songs. One 
can think of Burns apart from Ayrshire, of Wordsworth 
apart from Cumberland, but hardly of Tannahill apart 
from the Braes of Gleniffer. The district, too, is of but 
little extent ; in a walk of three hours you can see every 
spot mentioned by the poet. You visit his birthplace in 



406 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

the little straggling street, where the sound of the shut- 
tle is continually heard. You pass up to the green hills 
where he delighted to wander, and whose charms he has 
celebrated ; and you return by the canal where, when 
the spirit " finely touched to fine issues," was disordered 
and unstrung, he sought repose. Birth, life, and death 
lie side by side. The matter of the moral is closely 
packed. The whole tragedy sleeps in the compass of an 
epigram. 

Leaving the rambling suburbs of Paisley, you pass 
into a rough and undulating country with masses of 
gray crag interspersed with whinny knolls, where, in the 
evenings, the linnet sings ; with narrow sandy roads 
wandering through it hither and thither, passing now a 
clump of gloomy firs, now a house where some wealthy 
townsman resides, now a pleasant cornfield. A pretty 
bit of country enough, with larks singing above it from 
dawn to sunset, and where, in the gloaming, the wan- 
derer not unfrequently can mark the limping hare. A 
little farther on are the ruins of Stanley Castle. This 
castle, in the days of the poet, before the wildness of the 
country had been tamed by the plough, must have lent a 
singular charm to the landscape. It stands at the base 
of the hills which rise above it with belt of wood, rocky 
chasm, white streak of waterfall, — higher up into heath 
and silence, silence deep as the heaven that overhangs it ; 
where nothing moves save the vast cloud-shadows, where 
nothing is heard save the cry of the moorland bird. 
Tannahill was familiar with the castle in its every aspect, 
— when sunset burned on the walls, when the moon 
steeped it in silver and silence, and when it rose up 
before him shadowy and vast through the marshy mists. 
He had his loom to attend during the day, and he 



STANLEY CASTLE. 407 

knew the place best in its evening aspect. Twilight, 
with its quietude and stillness, seemed tS have peculiar 
charms for his sensitive nature, and many of his happiest 
lines are descriptive of its phenomena. But the glory is 
in a great measure departed from Stanley- Tower : the 
place has been turned into a reservoir by the Water 
Company, and the ruin is frequently surrounded by 
water. This intrusion of water has spoiled the scene. 
The tower is hoary and broken, the lake looks a thing of 
yesterday, and there are traces of quite recent masonry 
about. The lake's shallow extent, its glitter and bright- 
ness, are impertinences. Only during times of severe 
frost, when its surface is iced over, when the sun is sink- 
ing in the purple vapors like a globe of red-hot iron, — 
when the skaters are skimming about like swallows, and 
the curlers are boisterous, — for the game has been long 
and severe, and the decisive stone is roaring up the 
rink, — only in such circumstances does the landscape 
regain some kind of keeping and homogeneousness. 
There is no season like winter for improving a country ; 
he tones it down to one color; he breathes over its 
waters, and in the course of a single night they become 
gleaming floors, on which youth may disport itself He 
powders his black forest-boughs with the pearlings of his 
frosts ; and the fissures which spring tries in vain to 
hide with her floweis, and autumn w ith fallen leaves, he 
fills up at once with a snow-wreath. But we must be 
getting forward, up that winding road, progress marked 
by gray crag, tuft of heather, bunch of mountain violets, 
the country beneath stretching out farther and farther. 
Lo ! a strip of emerald steals down the gray of the hill, 
and there, by the wayside, is an ample well, with the 
"netted sunbeam" dancing in it. Those who know 



408 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

Tannahill's " Gloomy Winter 's noo awa," must admire 
its curious feltcity of touch and color. Turn round, you 
are in the very scene of the song. In front is " GlenifFer's 
dewy dell," to the east " Glenkelloch's sunny brae," afar 
the woods of Newton, over which at this moment lave- 
rocks fan the " snaw-white cluds " ; below, the " burnie " 
leaps in sparkle and foam over many a rocky shelf, till 
its course is lost in that gorge of gloomy firs, and you 
can only hear the music of its joy. Which is the fairer, 
— the landscape before your eyes, or the landscape 
sleeping in the light of song ? You cannot tell, for they 
are at once different and the same. The touch of the 
poet was loving and true. His genius was like the light 
of early spring, clear from speck or stain of vapor, but 
with tremulousness and uncertainty in it; happy, but 
with grief lying quite close to its happiness; smiling, 
although the tears are hardly dry upon the cheeks that 
in a moment may be wet again. 

But who is Tannahill ? the southern reader asks with 
some wonder ; and in reply it may be said that Burns, 
like every great poet, had many imitators and succes- 
sors, and that of these successors in the north country 
Hogg and Tannahill are the most important. Hogg was 
a shepherd in The Forest, and he possessed out of sight 
the larger nature, the greater intellectual force ; while 
as master of the weird and the supernatural there is no 
Scottish poet to be put beside him. The soul of Ariel 
seems to inhabit him at times. He utters a strange 
music like the sighing of the night-wind; a sound that 
seems to live remote from human habitations. In open- 
ness to spiritual beauty. Burns, compared with him, was 
an ordinary ploughman. Like Thomas the Rhymer, he 
lay down to sleep on a green bank on a summer's day, 



TANNAHILL. * 409 

and the Queen of Fancy visited his slumber ; and never 
afterwards could he forget her beauty, and her voice, 
and the liquid jingling of her bridle bells. Tannahill 
was a weaver, who wrote songs, became crazed, and 
committed suicide before he reached middle life. His 
was a weak, tremulous nature. He was wretched by 
reason of over-sensitiveness. " He lived retired as noon- 
tide dew." He wanted Hogg's strength, self-assertion, 
humor, and rough sagacity ; nor had he a touch of his 
weird strain. From Burns, again, he was as different 
as a man could possibly be. Tannahill knew nothing 
of the tremendous life-battle fought on wet Mossgiel farm, 
in fashionable Edinburgh, in provincial Dumfries. He 
knew nothing of the Love, Scorn, Despair, — those wild 
beasts that roamed the tropics of Burns's heart. But 
limited as was his genius, it was in its quality perhaps 
more exquisite than theirs. He was only a song-writer, 
— both Burns and Hogg were more than that, — and 
some of his songs are as nearly as possible perfect. He 
knew nothing of the mystery of life. If the fierce 
hand of Passion had been laid upon his harp, it would 
have broken at once its fragile strings. He looked upon 
nature with a pensive yet a loving eye. Gladness flowed 
upon him from the bright face of spring, despondency 
from the snow-flake and the sweeping wintry winds. 
His amatory songs have no fire in them. While Burns 
would have held Annie in his " straining grasp," Tanna- 
hill, with a glow upon his cheek, would have pointed 
out to the unappreciating fair the "plantin' tree-taps 
tinged wi' gowd," or silently watched the " midges dance 
aboon the bum." Then, by the aid of that love of 
nature, how clearly he sees, and how exquisitely he 
paints what he sees, — 
18 



410 *A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

" Feathery breckans fringe the rocks ; 
'Neath the brae the burnie jouks." 

" Towering o'er the Newton wuds, 
Laverocks fan the snaw-white cluds." 

Neither Keats nor Tennyson, nor any of their numerous 
followers, surpassed this unlettered weaver in felicity 
of color and touch. Any one wishing to prove the truth 
of Tannahill's verse, could not do better than bring out 
his song-book here, and read and ramble, and ramble 
and read again. 

But why go farther to-day? The Peesweep Inn, 
where the rambler baits, is yet afar on the heath ; Kil- 
barchan, queerest of villages, is basking its straggling 
length on the hillside in the sun, peopled by botanical 
and bird-nesting weavers, its cross adorned by the statue 
of Habbie Simpson, " with his pipes across the wrong 
shoulder." "Westward is Elderslie, where Wallace was 
born, and there, too, till within the last few years, stood 
the oak amongst whose branches, as tradition tells, the 
hero, when hard pressed by the Southrons, found shelter 
with all his men. From afar came many a pilgrim to 
behold the sylvan giant. Before its fall it was sorely 
mutilated by time and tourists. Of its timber were 
many snuff-boxes made. Surviving the tempests of 
centuries, it continued to flourish green atop, although 
its heart was hollow as a ruined tower. At last a gale, 
which heaped our coasts with shipwreck, struck it down 
with many of its meaner brethren. " To this complexion 
must we come at last." At our feet lies Paisley with 
its poets. Seven miles off, Glasgow peers, with church- 
spire and factory stalk, through a smoky cloud; the 
country between gray with distance, and specked here 
and there with the vapors of the trains. How silent 



GLENIFFER BRAES. 411 

the vast expanse ! not a sound reaches the ear on the 
height. Gleniffer Braes are clear in summer light, beau- 
tiful as when the poet walked across them. Enough, 
their beauty and his memory. One is in no mood to 
look even at the unsightly place beside the canal which 
was sought when to the poor disordered brain the world 
was black, and fellow-men ravening wolves. Here he 
walked happy in his genius ; not a man to wonder at and 
bow the knee to, but one fairly to appreciate and ac- 
knowledge. For the twitter of the wren is music as well 
as the lark's lyrical up-burst ; the sigh of the reed shaken 
by the wind as well as the roaring of a league of pines. 



412 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 



HOME. 

WHEN of an autumn evening the train brought 
me into Edinburgh, the scales of familiarity 
having to some little extent fallen from my eyes, I thought 
I had never before seen it so beautiful. Its brilliancy 
was dazzling and fairy-like. It was like a city of Chinese 
lanterns. It was illuminated as if for a great victory, 
or the marriage of a king. Princes Street blazed with 
street lamps and gay shop-windows. The Old Town was 
a maze of twinkling lights. The Mound lifted up its 
starry coil. The North Bridge leaping the chasm, held 
lamps high in air. There were lights on the Calton 
Hill, lights on the crest of the Castle. The city was in 
a full blossom of lights, — to wither by midnight, to be 
all dead ere dawn. And then to an ear accustomed to 
silence there arose on every side the potent hum of 
moving multitudes, more august in itself, infinitely more 
suggestive to the imagination, than the noise of the At- 
lantic on the Skye shores. The sound with which I had 
been for some time familiar was the voice of many bil- 
lows; the sound which was in my ears was the noise 
of men. 

And in driving home, too, I was conscious of a curious 
oppugnancy between the Syke life which I had for some 
time been leading and the old Edinburgh life which 
had been dropped for a little, and which had now to 
be resumed. The two experiences met like sheets of 
metal, but they were still separate sheets, — I could not 



OSSIANIC TRANSLATIONS. 413 

solder them together and make them one. I knew that 
a very few days would do that for me ; but it was odd 
to attempt by mental effort to unite the experiences 
and to discover how futile was all such effort. Coming 
back to Edinburgh was like taking up abode in a houSe 
to which one had been for a while a stranger, in which 
one knew all the rooms and all the articles of furniture 
in the rooms, but with whose knowledge there was 
mingled a feeling of strangeness. I had changed my 
clothes of habit, and for the moment I did not feel so 
much at ease in the strange Edinburgh, as the famihar 
Skye, suit. 

It was fated, however, that the two modes of life 
should, in my consciousness, melt into each other im- 
perceptibly. When I reached home I found that my 
friend the Rev. Mr. Macpherson of Inverary had sent 
me a packet of Ossianic translations. These translations, 
breathing the very soul of the wilderness I had lately 
left, I next day perused in my Edinburgh suiToundings, 
and through their agency the two experiences coalesced. 
Something of Edinburgh melted into my remembrance 
of Skye, — something of Skye was projected into actual 
Edinburgh. Thus is life enriched by ideal contrast and 
interchano^e. With certain of these translations I con- 
elude my task. To me they were productive of much 
pleasure. And should the shadows in my book have 
impressed the reader to any extent, as the realities im- 
pressed me, — if I have in any way kindled the feeling 
of Skye in his imagination as it lives in mine, — these 
fragments of austere music will not be ungrateful. 



414 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 



EXTRACT FROM CARRICK-THUEA. 

Night fell on wave-beat Rotha, 

The hill-sheltered bay received the ships ; 

A rock rose by the skirt of the ocean, 

A wood waved over the boom of the waves ; 

Above was the circle of Lodin, 

And the huge stones of many a power; 

Below was a narrow plain 

And tree and grass beside the sea. 

A tree torn by the wind when high 

From the skirt of the cairns to the plain. 

Beyond was the blue travel of streams ; 

A gentle breeze came from the stilly sea, 

A flame rose from a hoary oak ; 

The feast of the chiefs was spread on the heath ; 

Grieved was the soul of the king of shields, 

For the chief of dark Carrie k of the braves. 

The moon arose slow and faint; 
Deep slumber fell round the heads of the braves, 
Their helmets gleamed around ; 
The fire was dying on the hill. 
Sleep fell not on the eyelids of the king; 
He arose in the sound of his arms 
To view the wave-beat Carrick. 

The fire lowered in the far distance, 
The moon was in the east red and slow. 
A blast came down from the cairn ; 
On its wings was the semblance of a man, 
Orm Lodin, ghastly on the sea. 
He came to his own dwelling-place, 
His black spear useless in his hand. 
His red eye as the fire of the skies. 
His voice as the torrent of the mountains. 
Far distant in the murky gloom. 
Fingal raised his spear in the night, 
His challenge was heard on the plain, — 

" Son of the night, from my side. 
Take the wind, — away ; 
Why shouldst come to my presence, feeble one, 



OSSIANIC TRANSLATIONS. 415 

Thy form as powerless as thy arms ? 

Do I dread thy dark-brown shape, 

Spirit of the circles of Lodin ? 

Weak is thy shield and thy form of subtle cloud, 

Thy dull-edged sword as fire in the great waves, 

A blast parts them asunder, 

And thou [thyself] art straightway dispersed 

From my presence, dark son of the skies. 

CaU thy blast, ^ away ! " 

" Wouldst thou drive me from my own circle? " 
Said the hollow voice of eeriest sound. 
" To me bends the host of the braves ; 
I look from my wood on the people. 
And they fall as ashes before my sight; 
From my breath comes the blast of death; 
I come forth on high on the wind ; 
The storms are pouring aloft 
Around my brow, cold, gloomy, and dark. 
Calm is my dwelling in the clouds. 
Pleasant the great fields of my repose." 

" Dwell in thy plains," 
Said the mighty king, his hand on his sword; 
" Else remember the son of Cumal in the field ; 
Feeble is thy phantom, great is my strength. 
Have I moved my step from the mountain 
To thy halls on the peaceful plain ? 
Has my powerful spear met 
In the skyey robe the voice 
Of the dark spirit of the circle of Lodin? 
Why raise thy brow in gloom ? 
Why brandishest thy spear on high ? 
Little I fear thy threats, feeble one, 
I fled not from hosts on the field. 
Why should flee from the seed of the winds 
The mighty hero, Morven's king? 
Flee he will not, well he knows 
The weakness of thy arm in battle." 

" Flee to thy land," replied the Form, 
" Flee on the black wind, — away ! 
The blast is in the hollow of ray hand, — 
Mine are the course and wrestling of the storm. 
The king of Soroch is my son, 
He bends on the hill to my shade, 



416 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

His battle is at Carrick of the hundred braves, 
And safe he shall win the victory. — 

" Flee to thy own land, son of Cumal, 
Else feel to thy sorrow my rage." 

High he lifted his dark spear, 
Fiercely he bent his lofty head. 
Against him Fingal advanced amain, [a-fire,] 
His bright-blue sword in hand. 
Son of Loon, — the swartest cheeked. 
The light of the steel passed through the Spirit, 
The gloomy and feeble spirit of death. 
Shapeless he fell, yonder [opposite] 
On the v:ind of the black cairns, as smoke 
Which a young one breaks, rod in hand. 
At the hearth of smoke and struggle. 
The Form of Lodin shrieked in the hill, 
Gathering himself in the wind, 
Innis-Torc heard the sound. 
The waves with terror stay their courses : 
Up rose the braves of Cumal's son. 
Each hand grasped a spear on the hill, 
" Where is he? " they cried with frowning rage, 
Each armor sounding on its lord. 



EXTRACTS FROM FINGAL. 

CucHULLiN sat by the wall of Tura, 
In the shade of the tree of sounding leaf; 
His spear leant against the cave-pierced rock, 
His great shield by his side on the grass. 
The thoughts of the chief were on Cairber. 
A hero he had slain in battle fierce. 
When the watcher of the ocean came, 
The swift son of Fill with the bounding step. 

" Arise, Cuchullin, arise, 
I see a gallant fleet from the north. 
Swift bestir thee, chief of the banquet, 
Great is Swaran, numerous is his host ! " 



OSSIANIC TRANSLATIONS. 417 

" Moran, answered the dauntless blue-eyed, 
Weak and trembling wert thou aye; 
In thy fear the foe is numerous ; 
Son of Fili is Fingal, 
High champion of the dark-mottled hills." 

"I saw their leader," answered Moran; 
" Like to a rock was the chief, 
His spear as a fir on the rocky mountain. 
His shield as the rising moon: 
He sat on a rock on the shore 
As the mist yonder on the hill." 

" Many," I said, " chief of the strangers. 
Are the champions that rise with thee, 
Strong warriors, of hardiest sti-oke. 
And keenest brand in the play of men. 
But more numerous and valiant are the braves 
That surround the windy Tura." 
Answered the brave, as a wave on a rock, 
" Who in this land is like me ? 
Thy heroes could not stand in my presence ; 
But low they should fall beneath my hand. 
Who is he woul-d meet my sword ? 
Save Fingal, king of stormy Selma. 
Once on a day we grasped each other 
On Melmor, and fierce was our strife. 
The wood fell in the unyielding fight. 
The streams turned aside, and trembled the cairn. 
Three days the strife was renewed, 
Warriors bravest in battle trembled. 
On the fourth, said Fingal the king, — 
' The ocean chief fell in the glen.' 
He fell not, was my answer." 
Let Cuchullin yield to the chief, 
Who is stronger than the mountain storm. 

"I," said the dauntless blue-eyed, 
" Yield I shall not to living man. 
Cuchullin shall, resolute as he, be 
Great in battle, or stainless in death. 
Son of Fili, seize my spear. 
Strike the joyless and gloomy shield of Sema ; 
Thou shalt see it high on the wall of spears; 
No omen of peace was its sound. 



418 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

Swift, son of Fili, strike the shield of Sema, 
Summon my heroes from forest and copse." 

Swift he struck the spotted [bossy] shield, 
Each copse and forest answered. 
Pauseless, the alarm sped through the grove ; 
The deer and the roe started on the heath : 
Curtha leaped from the sounding rock ; 
Connal of the doughtiest spear bestirred himself j 
Favi left the hind in the chase ; 
Crugeal returned to festive Jura. 
Eonan, hark to the shield of the battles, 
Cuchullin's land signal, Cluthair, 
Calmar, hither come from the ocean: 
With thy arms hither come, Luthair. 
Son of Finn, thou strong warrior, arise ; 
Cairber [come] from the voiced Cromlec ; 
Bend thy knee, free-hearted Fichi. 
Cormag [come] from streamy Lena. 
Coilte, stretch thy splendid side, [limbs] 
Swift, travelling from Mora, 
Thy side, whiter than the foam, spread 
On the storm-vexed sea. 

Then might be seen the heroes of high deeds 
Descending each from his own winding glen. 
Each soul burning with remembrance 
Of the battles of the time gone by of old : 
Their eyes kindling and searching fiercely round 
For the dark foe of Innisfail. 
Each mighty hand on the hilt of each brand 

Blazing, lightning flashing [lit., streaming bright, like the sun] from 
their armor. 

As pours a stream from a wild glen 
Descend the braves from the sides of the mountains, 
Each chief in the mail of his illustrious sire. 
His stem, dark-visaged warriors behind, 

As the gatherings of the waters of the mountains [i. e. rain-clouds] 
Around the lightning of the sky. 
At every step was heard the sound of arms 
And the bark of hounds, high gambling 
Songs were hummed in every mouth. 
Each dauntless hero eager for the strife. 
Cromlec shook on the face of the mountains, 
As they marched athwart the heath : 



OSSIANIC TRANSLATIONS. 419 

They stood on the inclines of the hills, 
As the hoaiy mist of autumn 
That closes round the sloping mountain, 
And bmds its forehead to the sky. 

Flngal, Lib. i. lines 1 - 100. 

As rushes a gray stream in foam 
From the iron front of lofty Cromla; 
The torrent travelling the mountains. 
While dark night enwraps the cairns : 
And the cold shades of palj' hue 
Look down from the skirts of the showers ; 
So fierce, so great, so pitiless, so swift 
Advanced the hardy seed of Ei-in. 
Their chief, as the great boar [whale] of the ocean, 
Drawing the cold waves behind him ; 
Pouring his strength as billows; [or in billows,] 
'Neath his travel shakes the shore. 

The seed of Lochlin heard the sound, 
As the cold roaring stream of winter ; 
Swift Swaran struck his shield. 
And spoke to the son of Am beside him, — 
I hear a sound on the side of the mountains, 
As the evening fly of slow movements ; 
It is the gallant sons of Erin, 
Or a storm in the distant woodland. 
Like Gormal is the sound. 
Ere wakes the tempest in the high seas : 
Hie thee to the heights, son of Am, 
Survey each copse and hillside. 
He went, and soon returned in terror, 
His eye fixed and wild in his head; 
His heart beat quick against his side, 
His speech was feeble, slow, and broken. 

" Arise ! thou Lord of the waves, 
Mighty chief of the dark shields ; 
I see the stream of the dark-wooded mountains, 
I see the seed of Erin and their lord. 
A chariot! the mighty chariot of battle 
Advances with death across the plain; 
The well-made swift chariot of Cuchullin, 
The great son of Sema, mighty in danger. 
Behmd, it bends down like a wave, 



420 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

Or the mist on the copse of the sharp rocks ; 

The light of stones of power [gems] is round, 

As the sea round a bark at night. 

Of poHsh'd yew is the beam, 

The seats within are of smoothest bone ; 

The dwelling-place of spears it is, 

Of shields, of swords, and of mighty men. 

By the right side of the great chariot 

Is seen the snorting, high-mettled steed ; 

The high-maned, broad, black-chested, 

High-leaping, strong son of the hills. 

Loud and resounding is his hoof: 

The spread of his frontlets above 

Is like mist on the haunts of the elk; 

Bright was his aspect, and swift his going, 

Sith-fadda [Long-stride] is his name. 

" By the other side of the chariot 
Is the arch-necked, snorting, 
Narrow-maned, high-mettled, strong-hoofed. 
Swift-footed, wide-nostriled steed of the mountains, ' 
Du-sron-geal is the name of the horse. 
Full a thousand slender thongs 
Bind the chariot on high ; 
The bright steel bits of the bridles 
Are covered with foam in their cheeks : 
Blazing stones, sparkling bright. 
Bend aloft on the manes of the steeds, — 
Of the steeds that are like the mist on the mountains, 
Bearing the chief to his renown. 
Wilder than the deer is their aspect, 
Powerful as the eagle their strength ; 
Their sound is like the savage winter 
On Gormal, when covered with snow. 
In the chariot is seen the chief. 
The mighty son of the keenest arms, — 
CuchuUin of the blue-spotted shields. 
The sou of Sema, renowned in song, 
His cheek is as the polished yew; 
His strong eye is spreading high, 
'Neath his dark-arched and slender brow. 
His yellow hair, as a blaze round his head, 
Pouring [waving] round the splendid face of the hero, 
While he draws from behind his spear. 



aUG 21 \. 



OSSLINIC TRANSLATIONS. 421 

Flee, great chief of ships ! 

Flee from the hero who comes 

As a storm from the glen of streams." 

" When did I flee? " said the king of ships J 
When fled Swaran of the dark shields? 
When did I shun the threatening danger, 
Son of Arn, — aye feeble ? 
I have borne the tempest of the skies. 
On the bellowing sea of inclement showers ; 
The sternest battles I have borne, 
Why should I flee from the conflict, 
Son of Arn, of feeblest hand ? 
Arise my thousands on the field, 
Pour as the roar of the ocean. 
When bends the blast from the cloud. 
Let gallant Lochlin rise around my steel. 
Be ye like rocks on the edge of the ocean, 
In my own land of oars. 
That lifts the pine aloft 
To battle with the tempests of the sky." 

As the sound of autumn from two mountains 
Towards each other drew the braves, 
As a mighty stream from two rocks, 
Flowing, pouring on the plain; 
Sounding dark, fierce in battle. 
Met Lochlin and Innesfail. 
Chief mixed his strokes with chief, 
Man contended with man. 
Steel clanged on steel. 
Helmets are cleft on high. 
Blood is pouring fast around, 
The bow-string twangs on the polished yew; 
Arrows traverse the sky. 
Spears strike and fall. 
As the bolt of night on the mountains. 
As the bellowing seething of the ocean. 
When advance the waves on high ; 
Like the torrent behind the mountains 
Was the gloom and din of the conflict. 
Though the hundred bards of Cormag were there, 
And their songs described the combat. 
Scarcely could they tell 
Of each headless corpse and death, — 



422 A SUMMER IN SKYE. 

Many were the deaths of men and chiefs, 
Their blood spreading on the plain. 

Mourn, ye race of songs, 
For Sith-alum the child of the braves : 
Evir, heave thy snowy breast 
For gallant Ardan of fiercest look. 
As two roes that fall from the mountain, 
[They fell] 'neath the hand of dark-shielded Swaran; 
While dauntless he moved before Ms thousands, 
As a spirit in the cloudy sky, 
A spirit that sits in cloud, 
Half made by mist from the north, 
When bends the lifeless mariner 
A look of woe on the summit of the waves. 

Nor slept thy hand by the side, 
Chief of the isle of gentle showers , 
Thy brand was in the path of spoils, 
As lightning flashing thick, 
When the people fall in the glen. 
And the face of the mountain, as in a blaze, 
[Or is seething white with torrents,] 
Du-sron-geal snorted over brave men, 
Sith-fadda washed his hoof in blood, 
Behind him lay full many a hero. 
As a wood on Cromla of the floods, 
When moves the blast through the heath, 
With the airy ghosts of night. 

Weep on the sounding rock. 
Noble daughter of the isle of ships ; 
Bend thy splendid countenance over the sea. 
Thou lovelier than a spirit in the woods. 
Rising up soft and slow 
As a sunbeam in the silence of the hills. 
He fell, soon he fell in the battle, 
The youth of thy love is pale, 
'Neath the swoi-d of great CuchuUin. 
What has made thee so wan and cold ? 
He will move no more to hardy deeds. 
He will not strike the high blood of heroes; 
Trenar, youthful Trena has fallen in death ; 
Maid, thou shalt see thy love no more forever. 
His hounds howl piteously 



OSSIANIO TRANSLATIONS. 423 

At home, as they see his ghost, 
His bow is unstrung and bare; 

His death-sound is on the knoll, [i. e. on the knuU he utters his death- 
groan,] 
As roll a thousand waves to the shore, 
So under Swaran advanced the foe; 
As meets the shore a thousand waves, 
So Erin met the king of ships. 
Then arose the voices of death. 
The sound of battle-shout and clang of arras, 
Shields and mail lay broken on the ground. 
A sword like lightning was high in each hand, 
The noise of battle rose from wing to wing, 
Of battle, roaring, bloody, hot, 
As a hundred hammers striking wild, 
By turns, showers of red sparks from the glowing forge. 
Who are those on hilly Sena ? 
Who of darkest and fiercest gloom? 
Who likest to the murkiest cloud? 
The sword of each chief as fire on the waves, 
The face of the woods is troubled, 
The wave-beat rock shakes on the shore. 
Who, but Swaran of ships 
And the chief of Erin, renowned in song? 
The eye of the hosts beholds aside 
The encoiinter of the mighty heroes. 
Night descended on the combat of the braves. 
And hid the undecided conflict. 

FiNGAL, Book i. 313 - 502. 



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